


we come alive or come undone

by andibeth82



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the nightmares, after the monsters, after the secrets, the following things happen: Natasha and Steve put together Ikea furniture, read old letters from the war, and play Trivial Pursuit. Clint and Bobbi reconnect about their past. And Sam Wilson comes over to play video games.</p><p>Sometimes, the answer to being put back together is learning how to be unmade apart.</p><p>(OR: the one where Clint and Natasha try to heal, and team Winter Soldier is supposed to be off doing important “save the world” type things, but everyone gets sidetracked by life instead.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we come alive or come undone

**Author's Note:**

> I basically told myself that I was done writing post Winter Soldier fic, and then this happened, and I couldn’t stop it. And then I figured I might as well just go ahead and post it before Age of Ultron josses all of our headcanons about what happened in this period of time between Clint and Natasha. Also, well...you should know by now that I’m a sucker for assassins and feelings.
> 
> Things this fic includes: mentions of nightmares with graphic depictions of violence, sleepwalking, PTSD, and alcohol abuse. There is also a fair amount of consensual kink. If that’s not your thing, feel free to skip the last half of this piece.
> 
> Beta thanks to my hand-holding savior **geckoholic** who, as usual, helped make this better, and put herself through reading very, very long drafts, and helped me find a title, and then shut me up when I whined about how insanely goddamn long it was. And additional thanks to **un-canadien-errant** , who unintentionally provided the ideas that some of this became based on.

This is the first thing that Clint and Natasha do after S.H.I.E.L.D. goes to shit and Hydra makes its presence known in every inch of the world they previously knew to be secure: they go to the movies.

“I just lost my job, I’m probably going to lose all of my stocks, and now you’re making me pay twelve dollars to sit in a chair that someone probably had sex in?” Clint asks with a steep whine. Natasha rolls her eyes as she punches a few buttons on the touch screen of a ticket kiosk in the lobby.

“Clint, you never had stocks. I should know; I vetted half of your paperwork.”

There’s a pause, a break in the conversation, a moment that Natasha thinks might actually be serious contemplation before:

“Well, I _could’ve_ had stocks.”

Clint wants to see a drama and Natasha wants to see a comedy, in the end they settle on _Godzilla_. He buys popcorn that he showers with too much butter while she opts for a box of Almond Joy’s, though that doesn’t stop her fingers from creeping into his bag during previews.

“Tash. Stop stealing my popcorn.”

“You’re not going to eat it all, anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter. If you wanted some, you could’ve bought your own.”

The lights go down and Natasha thinks about how neither of them will admit that this is the easy way out -- sitting in a dark room watching a special-effects laden story filled with mindless dialogue, everyone pretending to be someone else just for the sake of enjoyment (she reaches for another handful of popcorn, laughs, literally almost _laughs out loud_ then because of the irony). It’s an excuse, a crutch, a denial that they can’t and won’t say; it’s easier to hide this way because it always has been, because that’s how they’ve always dealt with things.

_Your name is Natasha. You are thirty-two years old. Your name is Natasha Alianovna. You have red hair. Your name is Natasha Alianovna Romanov. You live in New York. You are a level seven agent with S.H.I.E.L.D. special service. You report to Nicholas J. Fury and Agent Maria Hill. Your handler is Philip Coulson and your partner is Clinton Francis Barton…_

_…no, that’s not right._

She spends most of the film distracted, shredding her napkin into bits of white, and when the lights come up, she isn’t surprised to see that Clint’s done the same. It’s a look, a shrug, an understanding that stretches between them; rarely are they shocked anymore at the way they seem to be in tune with each other’s feelings like this. She crumples the remains of the napkin in her palm while he chucks his half empty popcorn bag into the trash and they walk briskly down the stairs of the movie theater together, back into the cold night, where Natasha buries the lower half of her face in her too-thin scarf.

It’s barely four days into April, but for some reason, the winds are picking up more than usual.

“Well,” Clint says, shoving his hands in his pockets, arching his neck upwards so that it’s bathed in the dizzying spread of lights that make up 42nd Street’s most insanely glamorous offerings, “guess that takes care of that.”

 

***

 

It doesn’t really take care of anything, though they pretend that’s not true. They ride the subway together mostly in silence, pressed close against each other with their legs touching, body heat spreading between them like an invisible blanket. Clint’s hand stays at the small of her back even after they get off at his designated Bed-Stuy stop, pushing their way through the creaky turnstile.

She likes the feel of his palm, it’s warm and it’s comforting and it’s one of the only things she feels she might be able to classify as real at this moment.

“So hear me out,” Clint says, shoving his key in the lock. “We don’t have a job anymore which means we have a shit ton of vacation time, right? I say we go to Belarus.”

“Europe?” Natasha’s only half aware of his words as she moves ahead of him, flicking on the living room light, her mind registering memories of bloodied bandages, cracked ribs and blown out tires. Belarus had been one of the only missions where she thought she genuinely wouldn’t make it out alive, she knows he has to know that, but she’s going to play along anyway. “What’s in Belarus?”

“You, me, and a really big bed.” He closes the door and then drops his jacket loosely on the ground. Natasha raises an eyebrow, before moving her eyes across the room.

“And those things require a passport? We can do that right here. Right now, even.”

Clint’s face doesn’t say yes but it doesn’t quite say no, either, and Natasha presses herself against him before she has a chance to think about it, putting her hands on the front of his shoulders, thumbs squeezed deep into his sternum. She feels the coils of his breath in her hair as he casually slips his own hand underneath the hem of her jeans and underpants, dancing two fingers inside of her clit before twisting upwards, and she feels her knees buckle automatically as he fingers her gently, and then with a little more vigor.

He’ll stop if she wants him to -- she knows that -- but even still, she doesn’t bother to tell him no.

 

***

 

Clint’s never been a good sleeper (neither of them have) so in hindsight, Natasha shouldn’t have been surprised when it happened, after devouring most of the night’s Chinese food that’s masqueraded as a form of dinner. Clint falls asleep first, book sliding off his chest, and Natasha takes the responsibility of rolling him over onto his side when he starts snoring. She knows even as she does it it’s a futile move; he’ll turn over at some point and take up half the mattress anyway, because Clint has absolutely no idea how to share a bed, and that’s something Natasha has learned she’ll never be able to teach him. 

She lets herself drift off and wakes up to a loud, brutal crash that sends her heart shooting into her stomach and her arm shooting to the drawer of the bedside table, where she keeps her gun. The metal feels cool and real against her skin, it helps her steady the hand that she realizes is shaking, and she takes a breath as she levels the glock into the darkness as a second crash echoes in her eardrums. It takes her another moment to realize she’s alone in the king-sized bed, an awkwardly positioned pillow where Clint’s head would normally be, and the anxiety in Natasha’s stomach turns into a dull throb as puts the gun aside and gets out of bed.

Most of the noise is coming from the direction of the living room and she enters slowly, balling her fists until her joints ache. He’s in the corner by the couch, his face half hidden by his hands but she can tell by the way his body is moving that he’s not entirely lucid. If he’s sleepwalked, which she considers would probably be the most likely scenario, there’s a possibility he’s both unstable _and_ volatile. Natasha has enough memories of sleepwalking, so many that she could probably give her own therapy sessions on them, but she’s never dealt with that particular setback with him -- at least, not firsthand.

She reaches out, intent on touching his shoulder, and he turns suddenly while swinging his arms around. His aim is off, though, too messy in his current state, and she anticipates his reaction, ducking and maneuvering out of the way as he lurches forward. Clint lets out a yell as he makes direct impact with the small glass table by the couch, glass shattering underneath the force of his body as he falls on top of it, blood spurting from a deep gash on the inside of his wrist. 

It’s enough at least to rouse him, Natasha realizes, as she watches him groan quietly in pain, his body twitching slightly.

“Fuck. Am I awake?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha says slowly, still keeping her distance. “Are you?”

_My name is Natasha Alianovna Romanov. I am thirty-two years old. The code to my room at S.H.I.E.L.D. is a finger print scan plus 7-5-9-2-0 double pound..._

_...no, that’s not right._

“Yeah,” Clint says, holding up his bleeding arm, the red staining his skin. “Looks like it.”

Natasha sighs, running her eyes over his face, and then the rest of his body. “I’ll get the bandages,” she says finally, walking to the closet where she knows he keeps his first aid kit. When she comes back, he’s sitting in the same position, unmoving despite the fact that Natasha knows he can’t possibly be comfortable.

“I made a mess.”

“Luckily, it’s your place,” Natasha says deprecatingly, taking out a few gauze pads and wiping the blood away. “I wouldn’t feel so bad about it. Unless you’re inviting company over that I don’t know about.”

He cringes as she presses a little harder into his wound. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She knows the truth -- it’s not fine, not as much as he thinks it is -- and in the silence that follows, she peers closer at the cut. It’s deep, and it’ll certainly leave a healthy sized scar. But it’s not deep enough to require any kind of stitching, and she finds herself internally relieved about that fact.

“Were you dreaming?”

“Kind of,” he admits, looking down, hair swinging into his eyes. “I was…I was remembering.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, recognizing the tone of his voice, because she knows when and when not to push him. She finishes bandaging the cut, pulling the dressing tightly over his skin, watching him grimace and flex his fingers as she sits back on her heels. “Come on, I’ll make you coffee.”

It’s three in the morning, and she can almost feel her body protesting that fact, but she ignores her brain and grabs a packet of instant Starbucks from where she knows he keeps an extra stash. 

“Coffee and dumplings?” Clint asks, following her into the kitchen as she takes a plate out of the fridge. Natasha shrugs.

“If you want something more gourmet, you’ll have to order from the graveyard shift. I’m not doing anything more than running hot water right now.”

“Fair deal,” Clint says he sits down and shoves a dumpling into his mouth. Natasha surveys him with a look.

“Remembering what?”

Clint heaves a sigh that seems to take all the air out of his body. “New Mexico,” he says after a moment. “Telling him things in that bunker, all those secrets. Telling him about everyone...but mostly about you.”

The words slam into her with the same weight that Natasha thinks she’s seen in the throws of Thor’s hammer and Steve’s shield, and she levels her gaze.

“You’re still blaming yourself for that day.”

“No, not...” He trails off helplessly and she arches a brow, the quietest form of _I don’t believe you_ that they have in their own personal language.

“Try again.”

Clint inhales as if he’s trying to suck all the remaining oxygen out of the room. “Everything happened because of me. I told him things about you, and he used it against you. It started the argument you told me about. Banner would never have…I try to forget how much of an influence I was on everything that happened, but it’s all still there.” He waves his good hand around while pausing to take a drink and she hears his next words, the part where he wants to ask why it’s happening, and why it’s happening now, but Natasha already _knows_ why. This whole Hydra thing hasn’t just stripped her of everything she’s let herself become comfortable with since coming to S.H.I.E.L.D., left her naked and bare trying to pick up the pieces and fit them back together into something that made sense. It had rattled him as well, made him feel vulnerable and open and able to crack at the slightest instance of a marred memory. Natasha knows what it means to be unmade, just like she knows that you don’t have to directly experience something to be affected.

The last time they had experienced something like this was after Loki and she had lived through it then, she had lived through the nightmares and the screams and the panics, she had held him down and forced his hand and broken him mentally and physically in order to put put him back together. It was exhausting and numbing and it had _hurt_ , but when he finally looked at her in bed and she didn’t see fear, she had felt vindicated. This time...

This time, she doesn’t know how easy it will be to break the cycle.

“You think you can go back to sleep?” Natasha asks as she takes a dumpling and eyes his injured wrist, which he’s already starting to favor.

“Might, if you stay,” he says through a mouthful of cold dough. Natasha nods and pushes the plates aside, walking back towards the bedroom and not bothering to see if he’ll follow. She climbs back into bed and he joins her after a few more moments, stretches out as she curls up against him in the space that she fits best, while he massages her skin with his breaths. The bandage on his hand scrapes against her skin, and she remembers how they used to laugh about the fact they could fit together so easily, when they felt like they never belonged anywhere else.

 

***

 

“I’m okay,” Clint says again the next morning, first thing, when he bumps into Natasha coming out of the bathroom. She makes a noise without opening her mouth, stepping closer. 

“How’s your wrist?” she asks instead of acknowledging his words, running her fingers over the back of his palm. He winces. 

“Sore. Guess I better start wearing boxing gloves to bed.”

“I’ll allow it. Maybe then you’d keep to your own side,” Natasha says lightly. Clint makes a face.

“I’ll clean up after breakfast.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re supposed to meet with Hill, remember?”

“Right.” Clint drops his gaze, as if she’s berated him in some way. “Sorry. Just…kind of forgot.”

_Forgot._

_My name is Natasha. I am an agent with S.H.I.E.L.D. I protect the people that I care about. I saved the world…_

_...no, that’s not right._

She studies him for a long moment, before placing a hand against his cheek. “You’re gonna be okay,” she says finally, and it feels like she’s saying the words in order to try to convince _herself_ and not him, even as he nods.

“Yeah. Hopefully, I am.”

 

***

 

Natasha gets most of the broken glass cleaned up easily and then decides to kill time by taking a run, throwing her hair into a messy ponytail. It’s longer than she’d normally be comfortable with; she hasn’t had hair past her shoulders in years, since before she first came to S.H.I.E.L.D. But Natasha’s finding that aside from a few nuisances -- it’s easier to get tangled, it takes longer to dry after a shower -- long hair isn’t the worst thing in the world. And having it makes her feel different enough that she can pretend to be someone else, if she really wants to.

It’s the middle of the day by the time she makes it out of the house, and for all that she’s been through recently, she can’t remember the last time she ran for no reason -- when she wasn’t running _from_ her life, when she wasn’t running _for_ her life. It’s refreshing, in a way, to propel her body forward despite its insistence to do otherwise, despite the fact that her brain is asking her to _stop, stop, stop_ and she breathes through the burn in her lungs when her legs start to feel like jello, past the dizzying carousels of people lining the streets.

_I am Natasha Alianovna Romanov. I am thirty-two years old. I used to belong to the KGB. Nick Fury took me in. Nick Fury was my friend._

_Nick Fury lied to me._

She stops by a small fountain at the edge of a park, leaning over her knees, and gasps out air until she feels more like herself. Straightening up, she moves to sit on one of the benches adjacent to the monument spraying random torrents of water.

_I am Natasha Alianovna…_

_...no, that’s not right._

The memories come in spurts, pulling at the blank spaces in her brain. She remembers some of them in greater detail than others, the girls and the Red Room, Odessa and the smell of burning tires, plush dolls with painted on faces and safety pins stuck inside the worn stitching. There are the things that are tangible, like Clint and his morning breath and his unkempt hair, and then things less tangible, like her badge and her promises to an organization that she fought to uphold the secrets of, only to have her own secrets spilled into the world like the guts of a wild animal.

There is sharing bread with the girl who sleeps next to her, before she snaps her neck.

There is the Asset in all his glory, a metal arm and a smile that is somewhere between _I know you_ and _I cannot know you._

There is Clint in all his glory, arm-guarded hand stretched in her direction and a bow that is supposed to be a weapon hanging loosely by his side, and his face says, _I can help you_.

Natasha watches the crowds around her grow and thin and almost misses the presence of the body that sits down a little too close, causing her to look up in surprise.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“What are you doing?” She knows she can’t mask the surprise in her voice, so she doesn’t bother to try. Steve shrugs.

“I like running in the middle of the day.” He stretches out a sneakered foot. “Less crowded. And when it’s not dark, I feel I can think better. Anyway, what are _you_ doing?” He raises a brow. “It’s a long way from Bed Stuy.” 

Natasha runs her tongue over her teeth. “I like running,” she says finally, aware that she’s probably sounding pretty pathetic and lame, knowing Steve can probably see right through her, even though he just nods in response.

“I was, uh. I was supposed to be going off to look for Bucky. But…”

“But?” Natasha prompts, and this time it’s Steve that seems a little embarrassed.

“I don’t know. I thought I’d take a bit of a sabbatical...just a break or something.” He smiles thinly. “Doubt he’ll be any kind of threat for awhile anyway, what with Hydra being exposed and all.”

“And you almost dying,” Natasha replies, swinging her legs forward.

“And that,” Steve deadpans, leaning back on the bench as Natasha follows suit.

 “Does Barton know that you’re here?”

 _Does he know that you’re randomly escaping in the middle of the day to deal with your problems like this?_ Well, Steve had always been one for reading her when she didn’t want to be figured out. 

“No,” she says, tempering her tone carefully. “Not exactly. We don’t really keep track of each other like that.”

“But you’re doing okay,” Steve nudges, and Natasha knows it’s not a stray observation. She shrugs. 

“We went to the movies.”

Steve doesn’t startle, at least, not as much as Natasha expects him too, which makes her think that maybe their relationship isn’t as transparent as she’s always thought.

“That’s a thing that people do?”

Natasha turns, setting her lips in a straight line. “It’s a thing _we_ do.”

 

***

 

Despite the burgeoning pain in her side, Natasha runs the entire way back to the apartment, and Clint comes home and opens a beer not two hours later, downing it in less time than it takes for Natasha to close the door behind him.

“I take it your meeting went well.”

“Define _well_ ,” Clint mutters, crossing his arms after placing the now-empty bottle on the counter. “Apparently Hill wants us to lie low while she figures things out with Stark.”

“Okay,” Natasha says slowly, eyeing the bandage on his hand, mentally reminding herself that she needs to attend to it sooner rather than later. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“I don’t like lying low when there’s no information,” Clint responds shortly. “We don’t know if there’s going to be a S.H.I.E.L.D., or if there’s going to be anything else…not until Hydra backs down enough for us to get a sense of what we’re dealing with.”

“Okay,” Natasha says again, her mind immediately backtracking to Steve and the park. “So we take some time off. A vacation.” _Just a break or something._ “You can’t honestly tell me you’d be okay with going back into the field right now, anyway.”

“I’d be okay shooting my arrows,” Clint grumbles, but she notices he doesn’t say more than that, all but indicating his agreement with her words. She sighs, reaching for his hand.

“Come on. I gotta change that, and then we can order dinner. You said you wanted pizza, right?”

She can’t remember the last time they ate something that wasn’t take-out, but she’s not going to really start worrying about what’s considered healthy at this point, and she knows he isn’t, either. Natasha leads him into the bathroom and he sits down on the toilet seat while she takes his hand, peeling away the dry and bloodied gauze.

“Looks better, at least,” she notes as she takes a new bandage and re-wraps it. “Hurt?”

“Not as much as before,” Clint says as he stares down at his wrist. “Managed to keep it hidden from Hill, though. The last thing I need is for her to think I’m unstable.”

“Right, because we’re perfectly okay,” Natasha says sarcastically, shoving her hands underneath the faucet. Clint shrugs.

“We are, aren’t we?”

In Budapest, in Amsterdam, in Vienna, he had come back with a broken arm and she had come back with broken ribs and he had come back with blood running down the side of his head. In each country, they had cleaned each other’s injuries with barely a mention of the events that had caused them. In each city, they used the time in between waiting for extraction to mold themselves into each other’s bodies as their wounds screamed and their voices screamed and it seemed only right that they could be broken and yet whole at the same time, making love in war zones among fire and danger.

There’s a sting in her chest that blossoms into a clot that bursts, causing her to fight back a gasp. 

_My name is Natasha Alianovna Romanov. Romanov, Natasha Alianovna. I joined the KGB. I was born in 1984…_

_…no, that’s not right._

“Yes,” she lies as she steps closer, fitting herself against his warm and solid skin. “We are.”

 

***

 

They sleep that night with their arms wrapped around each other, as if they’re trying to protect themselves against the world, against their nightmares, against their thoughts. It suits them, in a way -- Clint was to Natasha what a blanket was to a young child, although Natasha hesitated to ever put their relationship into those words because she knows he would take offense to the metaphor and take even more offense to the fact that the analogy implied she thought of him as nothing more than a safety net.

Which isn’t to say that they don't do the whole “friends with benefits” thing, because you don’t just build a partnership and a history of physical and mental trust on absolutely no feelings. But sometimes, Natasha _liked_ that she couldn’t exactly explain what Clint and her were, or what they had become. Friends, sure. Partners, definitely. Lovers, no pretending otherwise. Their relationship was, like so many things in Natasha’s life, complicated, yet it was pretty much the only complication that made sense to her, that she liked being tangled up in, and it was a feeling that had driven her to keep it that way.

Clint turns over, and there’s fluidness and protectiveness when she dreams and when she falls asleep with one hand tucked under her arm.

 

***

 

_“What is your name?” And the voice is kindly, and Natasha thinks it could almost be a friend._

_“Natasha.”_

_“Natasha. A pretty name for a pretty princess.”_

_She makes a face. “I’m not a princess,” because she’s not, she’s a girl who is stealing food and she’s backed into a corner and her family needs to eat._

_“You are a princess to me.”_

_She holds on to the metal arm because she needs help and she needs warmth, and he is intimidating but he is also kindly, and no one has ever treated her kindly before…_

 

 _“_ _What is your name?” And the voice is hard, undeserving, but strangely, Natasha is drawn to it because she knows she has never been deserving._

 _“Natasha.”_  

_“Natasha. Not Natalia.”_

_She stands taller, arching her spine against the colorful bruises that map the skin of her body. “No. I am Natasha,” she says because she is, she should be, that is who they have taught her to be. Not Natalia. Natasha._

_“I’d like to offer you recruitment with S.H.I.E.L.D.”_

 

_“What is your name?” And the voice is cautious, curious and a little bit interested, and the fact that she can’t figure out the intention behind it makes her want to scream in frustration._

_“Natasha.”_

_“Natasha. I like that.”_

_“Why should you like anything?” She turns on her heel and walks back to her room, slamming the door behind her, because the last thing she needs is this godforsaken archer trying to act like he’s her savior in a world that’s already thrown her to the curb._

 

_Natasha’s good at creeping around in places that she doesn’t really belong in, and has long since perfected the art of compromising situations where she doesn’t belong. Still, she’s almost surprised to find him sleeping, though she realizes she shouldn’t be. When he had first brought her back, he had passed out next to her on the helicarrier, his breathing deep and uninterrupted. His hands had fallen slack by his sides and his head had rolled forward, and she had stared, not because he looked attractive by any means (especially like that) but because there was absolutely nothing stopping her from taking the garrote hidden in her boot and wrapping it around his throat. There was nothing stopping her from doing the same to the six other agents in thick suits, who were stationed on either side, clearly poised to make a move if she did something to incite them._

_Clearly, he felt he didn’t need to be on guard. Which, in the end, would end up being his loss._

_Natasha opens the door slowly, soundlessly padding across the room until she’s directly in front of his bed. He’s got one palm turned up and the covers bunched around his middle; it’s easy to pull back the sheets to find access to the upper half of his body. She kneels next to him, coming level with his face as she tightens one hand on the knife clutched between her fingers._

_He looks peaceful enough, the lines around his forehead less prominent than she remembers them being, his lips loose and his face pressed into the pillow. For a brief moment, she considers it almost a shame she won’t get to know him better -- she’s seen his skills, most likely, he could have been a worthy opponent in more ways than one. But she has orders, and she was taught to always act on her orders, and just because someone is nice to her doesn’t mean she can forget her conditioning._

_It doesn’t really work like that._

_He stirs just enough for her to jump and curse herself silently for being caught off guard, but then he stretches out and goes still again, eyes remaining closed. She raises the knife and delicately trails it over his arm, his throat, her blade brushing across his skin in a silent, deathly dance before she nicks a spot on his arm, just for fun, just to see if he’ll react. He jerks awake but before he can form a yell of any kind, she’s stuck the knife into the artery in his neck._

_Red leaks onto her hands, spurting forward from the hole in his throat as he struggles to ask the questions he’ll never hear the answers to; she twists blade a little deeper as he slumps forward and watches as his face finds her own. It’s pity, she realizes as the last signs of life flicker and then wane in his eyes, pity and maybe surprise in his final look, the fact that the person he had risked his life for turned out to be nothing more than what she was always meant to be: a weapon._

_A robot._

_My name is Natasha Romanov. I serve my country._

And the blood is drying on her hands, and there’s a sudden flash of fear. 

_No, that’s not right._

And she screams.

_“Natasha!”_

Something hard slams into her body, forcing her eyes to open, and she struggles to focus as Clint comes into view in front of her, too late realizing he’s got her upright against the wall of the bedroom. He forcefully holds onto her wrists as she delivers a swift kick to his calf.

_“Fuck. Natasha!”_

The urgency of his voice pulls her into full consciousness and she freezes immediately, breathing hard, her throat raw and burning, realizing that Clint’s face is inches from her own, his nose brushing against what she comes to recognize is her sweaty forehead.

“ _Nat. Tasha._ Wake the fuck up.”

Her legs give out and she goes limp at his words, sinking to the ground and pressing her head into the floor. Everything feels like it’s on fire, like she can’t find a foothold, like she doesn’t know where she is.

“Clint…”

He doesn’t answer, and the fear that rises from her stomach makes her think she might be sick.

“Did I hurt you?”

Clint shakes his head. “Fine,” he says gruffly, his voice strained, and when she looks up she can see the deep marks of her thumbs imprinted against the side of his neck in angry bruised stamps. She cringes.

“Fucking hell. Clint, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I --”

“Fine,” he repeats, crossing his arms tightly, and it looks like it pains him to swallow. “It’s fine, okay?”

“No, it’s not.” Natasha struggles to get up and Clint reaches down and grabs her hand, pulling her to her feet. She blinks back ashamed tears; it makes her feel pathetic that she can’t hide her vulnerability from him but it’s also been years since she’s ever had thoughts like the ones she realizes she’s been apparently harboring in the back of her mind.

“I need to take a shower,” she manages, pushing past him, suddenly desperate to get away. Clint follows slowly as she grabs a pair of fresh clothes from the dresser.

“You gonna be okay in there?” he asks finally, stopping a few feet away. Natasha nods, because even if it’s a lie, she _has_ to be.

“I’ll be out soon.”

She closes the door on his face, turning on the water to give the illusion she’s actually acting on the shower decision more instantly than she’s planned. While condensation steams up the windows, she strips and then leans over the sink, resting her weight on her elbows. 

There are a few scratches she can see along her arms, red and fresh, but thankfully nothing that seems too serious, and a quick search of her body confirms that nothing else has been acquired in the wake of the past few hours. She breathes a sigh of relief at that fact, letting the exhale soothe her, and finally does step into the shower, using the time to wash the sweat off her body. She finds herself wishing she could also wash away the rest of what she feels crawling under her skin – the intensity of something unfamiliar, unsure and dirty. Clint’s sitting on the couch when she comes out, hair wrapped in a thick towel and new clothes hanging off her body. Natasha joins him hesitantly, bending her knees into the cushion. 

“Waiting up for me?”

“You know it,” Clint says, rubbing a hand across his face. His voice still sounds like sandpaper and in the light from outside, she can see the marks on his neck more clearly, and she closes her eyes.

“I…did I…”

“Kill me?” Clint asks a little sarcastically with a short laugh that turns into a cough. “No, Nat. Turns out that when someone is trying to randomly choke you, you kind of wake up and stop it.” 

Natasha swallows down an invisible lump. “I’m sorry,” she repeats helplessly, and he looks over at her with a weary gaze.

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah,” she admits. “Or…they could be memories. I don’t know. They kind of meld together, if that makes sense.” She pauses, then barks out a laugh at her words, because it suddenly seems so _stupid_. Dueling nightmares, and from two of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s former top agents, no less. They might as well be screwed up peas in a pod.

“We’re so fucked up.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be together.”

“Don’t be dumb,” says Natasha instantly, even though she knows he’s right. They’re not safe like this, not with their minds constantly battling each other in this way, two turbulent forces trying to fight for dominance. “Where would you go? Where would _I_ go?”

Clint shrugs. “I dunno. Bobbi’s. Jess’, maybe. Kate’s.” He inclines his head in her direction and Natasha tries to ignore how much the motion looks like it hurts. “You could go to Steve’s.”

She fights the growing pit in her stomach. “I told him to call that nurse,” she replies. “Plus, he’s supposed to be looking for the Winter Soldier right now. I don’t think he’s up for a threesome of any kind.”

Clint looks exasperated. “You can’t stay here,” he insists. _Not until we’re better_ , he doesn’t add but she knows what he means. Natasha finds his eyes after a long moment, exhaustion coursing through her body. 

“What if I have too many nightmares?”

“Steve will take care of you. I think he’s used to it.”

“What will I do if you drink too much? Or sleepwalk into traffic?”

Clint shrugs. “Bobbi’ll take care of me. We used to be married, remember?”

Natasha nods, rubbing at one of the marks on her arm. She leans into him without thinking and he puts one arm around her shoulder as she closes her eyes, thankfully finding nothing but darkness and silence behind tight lids.

 

***

 

Breakfast the next morning is strained in ways it shouldn’t be, both of them trying to avoid their late night conversation even though Natasha knows sooner or later they’ll have to face what they don’t want to.

So Natasha does it first, pushing back her chair, letting it scrape unceremoniously across the floor.

“I’m going to Steve’s,” she announces as Clint looks up with tired eyes. He’s bare-chested at the kitchen table, his socks falling down around his ankles, and despite the fact that he hasn’t done anything more than make coffee, he looks like he’s just completed a marathon run. It hurts her heart.

“You’re okay with me going to Bobbi’s, then?”

“Yes,” she says after a moment, because she is, and she knows that’s a level of trust they’ve grown to be able to afford each other over the years. Clint smiles and Natasha tries to smile back as she takes another sip of caffeine.

 

***

 

“We’re doing the right thing, yeah?” Later, she’s standing in front of him with her coat on and a suitcase at her feet and she feels like a child leaving her family, like she’s leaving the safest part of her she can hold onto and going out into the world to sink or swim voluntarily, with no life preserver. They’ve never done this apart before; they’ve tried numerous things during their partnership that have helped them become less compromised, but it had always been about working out their issues _together_ , whether it was a nightmare or brainwashing or an angry shouting match.

“Yes,” she affirms, touching the arrow around her neck, looping her fingers through the chain. She knows that they need this in order to be able to eventually sort their shit out and feel okay about it. “This is the only keepsake I want from our relationship. Not the bruises or the memories or any of the other stuff we’ve been giving each other.”

Clint blinks fast. “We’ll text every day.”

“Almost every day. Text or email.”

He pulls her into a hug and she rests her head against his chest, soaking up the warmth of his body. A part of her hates that she’s following through with this, when she knows that Clint is one of the only things that’s kept her sane for so many years. She realizes that she’s not really sure what spending time apart will do to her -- to them -- but she tries not to think about it.

“I feel safe with you,” she says, because she does, and she presses her ear a little deeper to his sternum. She had put him back together once, had laid on a hospital bed with her head against his chest in this same exact way, because at the time, she had to reassure herself that he was breathing, that he was living, that she had put him back together the _right_ way and not the way that would simply hold him until he fell apart again.

“I do, too. But --”

“But you need space,” Natasha finishes, and Clint looks a little uncomfortable. When Natasha sees his face she feels like she’s known his answer for a lot longer than two seconds.

“Yeah.”

“And you can’t have that when I’m sleeping next to you.”

Clint swallows. “Not really.”

Natasha leans up on her toes and kisses him gently, her lips lingering on his own until he opens his own mouth and finds her tongue, drawing her in as much as he allows. She breaks their connection after what seems like far too long, letting his mouth brush against her cheek, and walks out before she can stop herself.

She only allows her throat to close up when she’s far enough away that she knows she can’t turn around and easily run back. 

 

***

 

“Hey,” she tells Steve when he opens the door, ignoring the look of surprise on his face. Her eyes are red, she knows, and her face is flushed from travel. “I kind of ran myself into a place I couldn’t get out of. You wouldn’t happen to still be on that sabbatical, would you?”

 

*** 

 

After Natasha leaves, Clint finishes packing. He thinks that the worst part about the whole thing is that everything still smells like Natasha: the pillows, the towels, he swears he can even pick up her scent on old clothing that’s already been washed. He grabs his toothbrush and a can of shaving cream from the bathroom, throwing a forlorn look at his gear stashed in the corner, and has a moment of hesitation when he considers packing up just a few of his arrows for god knows what purpose.

He picks up his cell phone instead, and punches number eight on speed dial.

“What the fuck?”

“I’m assuming this is still your number?” because Clint won’t admit that he’s never even thought about taking her out of his phone, and it’s not like they hated each other enough to never want to exist in each other’s presence again.

“More to the point: you’ve called me twice in two years, Barton. One of those times was because you needed my help for extraction.”

“Latvia, remember?” Clint asks a little too brightly, and Bobbi snorts on the other end of the line.

“I did not bust my ass for a PhD to fly a plane into _Latvia_ and save you.”

“Except you did,” Clint says, shoving another shirt into his bag. “And then we went on one of _your_ missions, and I got to film you singing karaoke in a bar in South Korea. Anyway, look, I got a favor to ask. I need somewhere to stay.”

“What happened to your place?” Bobbi’s voice is suddenly curious.

“Nothing.”

“What happened to Natasha?” and the tone becomes slightly more inquisitive.

“She’s busy,” Clint says curtly, because he figures they can go over the full story when he’s got his bearings and when he’s adjusted to another environment. “Look, can I come over or not?”

“Well, let me check my calendar of availability where ex-husbands are concerned,” Bobbi says sarcastically, before pausing to add silence to the conversation. “105 East 75th Street. Fourth floor.”

“Leave the door open?” Clint asks as he throws on his coat, wondering if she still remembers the right response, and Bobbi sigh with slight amusement.

“I like locking it. Keeps the dogs out when I’m away.”

 

***

 

Steve’s apartment in Bay Ridge is small, smaller than Clint’s, at least, but Natasha has a distinct feeling he probably pays less than Clint does for rent, given the neighborhood.

“It’s, uh, not the best of accommodations,” Steve apologizes as he leads her into his bedroom, which is quaint with a twin-sized bed and a dresser in the corner, an old-time radio positioned on the nightstand. “Never really thought about a guest bedroom situation. Always figured I’d just sleep on the couch. I don’t mind, though. Not if it’s you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Natasha asks, putting her bag by the bed and turning around. Steve shrugs, and Natasha’s almost shocked by the reaction, because at this point, after all they’ve been through, she didn’t think anything could embarrass him anymore. 

“It means I trust you. Probably the only other person I’d do this for is Sam. Or Bucky. If he ever came back, that is.” 

“Not Sharon?” Natasha inquires, trying the bed out. It feels strangely comfortable, unlike Clint’s hard mattress that she’s gotten so used to finding a place on.

“Maybe Sharon,” Steve concedes slowly and Natasha smiles, sticking her hands behind her head. 

“Don’t make me give you a lesson in matchmaking.”

“I’ve seen your matchmaking, remember? I think I’d prefer an online dating profile.”

“We can get you one of those, too,” Natasha says a little thoughtfully, turning over. “I do need a hobby, now that I’m not working. And let’s face it, you’d have a great headline: All American Hero.”

Steve snorts, throwing her a blanket. “How long are you staying again?” 

_My name is Natasha Romanov. I am an agent with S.H.I.E.L.D. My partner is Steve Rogers...._

_...no, that’s not right._

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Until --”

“Until you get yourself sorted out?” Steve interrupts, looking at her with eyes that Natasha thinks probably know all too well what she means, because of course he does. She sighs.

“Yeah. Until then.”

 

***

 

Steve only has bacon, bread, milk and some frozen dinners in his fridge, so Natasha’s first order of business after unpacking is to set up an account for him on FreshDirect.

“I ordered take-out every night with Clint, and if I do that here, I’ll go insane,” she says, because she likes take-out but she also knows that she’s supposed to be trying to distance herself, and she can’t do that if things will be the same as they were in Bed Stuy. Steve makes a face and shoves his hands in his pocket.

“I hate spending so much money on food that just sits here,” he admits. “Last week, my bananas went bad because I didn’t eat them fast enough. I’m only one person.”

“And I’m another person,” Natasha reminds him. “While I’m here, I think it would benefit you to start living like you’re not on your own. One day, hopefully, that won’t be the case. And don’t you dare give me more of that shared life experience crap.”

Steve sighs and mutters a few complaints under his breath, but he takes the laptop from Natasha’s outstretched arms, moving the cursor lazily as he drags items into his cart.

“Seriously, you’re going to thank me later,” Natasha says as she watches him from her spot on the other end of the couch. “Getting groceries delivered straight to your door is probably the best thing we’ve invented in the modern age.”

“Hang on, I’ll put it on the list next to Marvin Gaye and _Star Wars_ ,” Steve says sarcastically, but Natasha doesn’t miss the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

 

***

 

“I thought you’d have more stuff,” Bobbi says when she opens the door, straight blonde hair framed by horn-rimmed glasses. Clint realizes he hasn’t seen her in three years.

“I travel light.”

“You wish. And if you think I kept anything after the divorce, you’re kind of shit out of luck.”

“I didn’t,” Clint says honestly. “I just really travel light. It’s that whole S.H.I.E.L.D. thing.”

“There is no more S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Bobbi says but her response isn’t exactly sarcastic.

“No shit.”

He makes his way into the apartment, stopping to take in the larger than usual space and pristine decor. On the surface, it seems like the epitome of a perfect Upper East Side home, the one that would come with having two degrees and all the class that Bobbi always emitted even when she wasn’t trying, the high-society pull that shamelessly factored into the reason Clint ended up falling for her in the first place. But he doesn’t miss the table in the corner, the one that’s covered with books and papers and what look like coffee stains, the chair pushed back and broken on one leg, the kinds of chinks in an otherwise smooth armor that make him smile because he knows there are some things that will never change. 

“You can stay in here,” Bobbi says as she walks ahead of him, turning on the light in another room and Clint blinks in surprise at the large king sized bed with the floral comforter, the slippers by the right side, and the frilled lamp that suggests it’s obviously her space.

“You sure you don’t want me to take the couch? This isn’t exactly a weekend stay.” 

“And you want to sleep on the couch for that?” Bobbi looks skeptical, her eyes flitting towards his wrist. Clint sighs.

“You really want to sleep in the same bed?”

“Clint.” She looks exasperated in a way that’s distinct and specific to Bobbi Morse, a look that’s rooted in too many years of trying to save a marriage that just didn’t want to coorperate. “I still love you, okay? We just didn’t...we didn’t match. And sleeping in the same bed again, for however many weeks, is not going to change that.”

“I know,” Clint says slowly. “Just not sure you want to deal with…this.”

Bobbi looks even more annoyed. “If you didn’t want me to deal with whatever _this_ is, you wouldn’t have called. I’m sure you have other people to bother.”

 _Not really._ “You’re probably right.” Clint looks around the room again, stripping off his heavy sweatshirt and throwing it on the floor.

“So, Morse. What’s for dinner?”

 

***

 

When she’s in bed later that night, after Steve has closed the door and left her to her own devices, she fishes out her phone from where she’s stashed it, letting the harsh light of the screen assault her vision as she scrolls through her small list of contacts. Well, smaller than Clint’s, she knows, because Natasha doesn’t exactly keep her friends close, and also, her friends aren’t really the type to text each other on their downtime. She can’t remember the point when she stopped putting his alias in her phone and started using his name like a normal person, not branding him as “Tim” or “Paul” or even “C.F.B.” It was a little less compromising for him to be in her phone under “Clint” than it was for her to be in his phone under her own name, but she kind of likes that while he’s become Clint, she’s still remained N.R.

Natasha keys in a few letters and waits for what feels like ages, and her breaths become a little shallower, until her phone vibrates harshly.

_I’m here. What’s up?_

_Just wanted to say hi_. (“Really?” She mutters, because she’s pretty sure it might be the lamest excuse ever.)

 _Ha ha k. You with Rogers?_ There’s a stupid emoticon attached to the end of the question, and it makes her insides ache in a way that she hates and loves all at the same time.

 _Yes. You with Bobbi?_  

 _Yup, went over this afternoon. How do u feel?_  

Natasha hesitates with her hands above the touch pad, typing slowly, staring at the words.

 _I haven’t gone to bed yet so jury’s still out. How’s your wrist?_  

Another pause, another three minutes of tension, and she wonders if he’s doing the same thing: looking at his own words and wondering if he can send the truth or if it’s easier just to lie.

 _Healing. Bobbi thought I fucked up again_.

 _Well, you kind of did,_ and she smiles as she texts furiously _. But I forgive you for it._

_Love you too._

She waits for him to follow with a patented joke or crack, but he doesn’t, and it settles her enough so that she feels like she can fall asleep, one finger hovering over the first two letters of his message, pointer finger slightly obscuring half of his words.

 

***

 

Natasha goes running three days after she arrives, slipping out before the sun is up; she’s got an extra key that Steve has acquired from his landlord but it doesn’t matter. She knows that he’s awake and that he’s heard her leave, even though when she walks by the couch he’s breathing soundly, the top of his head burrowed into the cushion.

She turns right on 3rd Avenue and past the houses that line the block. There’s something about the way that they’re squished against each other that causes a pain, one that’s unrelated to her running, as if the entire world is closing in on her and threatening to destroy every inch of her that breathes. Brooklyn is familiar enough, but sometimes it seems like it’s too much at once, like everything is vying for some measure of territorial space that doesn’t quite exist on its small grounds. Natasha runs past the stoplights and intersections and storefronts until she finally comes to a stop.

 _My name is Natasha Romanov._ _I am thirty-two years old._

_I have no memories._

It’s not true, not exactly, but she might as well believe it, because she has no idea who she is right now.

She takes refugee in a small coffee shop on 86th Street, squeezing herself in between early morning patrons and thick Brooklyn accents. When she finally makes it back to Steve’s apartment, she opens the door to find him sitting in the kitchen eating an orange. A dark shirt stretches across his wide chest and somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers a laughable incident where Clint had grumbled about worrying she would get too turned on by working with _Captain freaking America._

“You brought me breakfast?” Steve asks when she drops a paper bag on the table, pushing back hair that’s fallen loose from a low braid. 

“Pastries, actually,” Natasha clarifies. “I would hope that by now you’d have had an _actual_ breakfast.”

“Does a bagel count?” he asks a little hopefully, helping himself to an over-sized muffin. Natasha sighs.

“You sound like Clint.”

“Not a bad thing, I’d imagine.” 

Natasha shakes her head mutely, trying to parse how strange this conversation feels because Clint would’ve said the same thing, except he also would’ve followed the sentence up with some quip that was slightly off-kilter. It’s strange, and at the same time, it’s really not. 

“Running help this morning?”

“I’m not sure,” she says, ignoring his gaze, and the confirmation that he knew where she was and what time she had left. “I still don’t feel like myself.”

He swallows a bite of food. “Well, we could take a walk. Or…” 

“Or?” 

Steve shrugs. “Hell, Trivial Pursuit is always a distraction.”

“Trivial Pursuit.” Natasha frowns, and Steve grins, getting up.

“I got the pop culture edition. Sam made me buy it.” He pulls a square box from the cabinet and places it on the table, raising an eyebrow.

“Come on. Don’t you wanna play board games with an old grandpa?”

Natasha laughs against her will and settles into the chair while Steve unpacks the pieces, and they fall in with each other in a way that feels both strange and content, the easy banter they’ve established on missions corroborated by the comfort they feel of being able to anticipate each others’ quirks and deadpan responses. So Natasha can tell Steve he really sucks at sports past the 60’s, and Steve can shoot back that Natasha would know more about music if she ever allowed anyone to use the radio when they drove together and _then_ _I’ll go back to putting my feet on the dash, Rogers_ , and _I didn’t say you could deface the inside of my car, Romanoff, that’s a rental for chrissake._

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen the older _Saturday Night Live_ skits,” Natasha tells him later that evening while digging her spoon into the ice cream carton, before sending Clint a text that says exactly that. They laugh together a little too much as Natasha pulls up episodes of _Curb Your Enthusiasm_ on HBO Go, and when she wakes up at night screaming and flinging her fists into hard, firm flesh, Steve doesn’t actually bother to talk her down when she fully wakes up.

“You wanna hurt me, you’re gonna have to do a lot more than bruise my arm,” he says at breakfast the next morning when she approaches him with what she knows are guilty eyes. He had held her after her nightmare, gathered her in his arms without pretense and then spent the night fully clothed beside her, and she had felt like a child in the arms of an adoptive parent, someone giving her kindness she didn’t quite deserve.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks, knowing the only reason that she’s asking at all is because she needs to know she has his permission to be okay with it happening again. He shakes his head, and takes another sip of coffee.

“No. Beat me up all you want, Natasha. Isn’t that why you came here?”

 _It’s more than that_ , she wants to say, that there’s a connection she can’t explain. He had lost his past, too, his life as he knew it had been taken from him, just in a different way than what she had experienced. She knows everyone around her has been broken, Clint most of all, but Steve was different. Steve might _understand_ having just enough of your memory, but not all of it. Natasha grabs a box of cereal, shaking a handful of Cheerios into the bowl, and when he puts his hand on her knee, she doesn’t shy away.

Sometimes she dreams and sometimes she doesn’t, more often than not she simply wakes up with sweat beading across her forehead and her breaths coming in quick gasps; if Steve sees her continual heavy bags he never comments on them. Natasha thinks he’s got her beat in the nightmares department, though he might never admit it, and she might never admit to the noises _she’s_ heard coming from the couch when she can’t fall asleep. It’s as if choosing silence over acceptance of their shared and twisted pasts is easier, like it was easier with Clint to get lost in pretending that the things they needed to talk about didn’t exist.

But it wasn’t Clint, at least, that she was hurting by keeping her memories to herself, and for that Natasha finds herself grateful, enough at least to consider that maybe he was right about this whole thing.

She thinks about Clint. She always thinks about Clint. When she can’t sleep, she picks at the scars on her arms, the ones she can remember acquiring, and wonders if he’s having the same dreams, just different scenarios.

 

***

 

“Tell me what life has been like for Clint Barton,” Bobbi says as she pours herself a glass of wine. She’s been walking around picking up stray papers by her desk and he thinks the fact that she finally sits down next to him is more out of comfort than resignation. Clint snorts as the couch cushion shifts underneath him.

_What has life been like for Clint Barton? Well, my job was destroyed, for one._

“I’m surprised you even care.”

Bobbi sets her mouth in a thin line as she hands him an open beer. “Clint, we’re divorced. We’re not enemies. I don’t hate you. I don’t have a voodoo doll of you somewhere that I’m trying to destroy, regardless of what you probably think.”

“I don’t think those things,” Clint lies, trying not to smile, because Bobbi had always been so damn good at making him _smile_ when he didn’t want to. “Right, so.” He accepts the drink. “Clint Barton is still a mess sometimes, he can’t figure out his life, but otherwise, he seems to be doing okay.”

“And what would Natasha say?” Bobbi asks after a moment. Clint laughs, kicking his legs out.

“Natasha would say she’s got as much figured out as he does, so shut the hell up. But that’s besides the point.”

Bobbi rolls her eyes, pulling her legs up. “You always were a pain in the ass when it came to opening up, Barton. I’m glad that at least hasn’t changed.”

“Yeah, well, what _has_ changed?” Clint asks a little absently, rubbing at the stubble that’s started to grow over the lower half of his chin. Bobbi hesitates, twirling one of her fingers around the stem of the wine glass.

“I’ve been in talks to go undercover with Coulson’s new team.”

“Excuse me?” Clint hears his voice rise and knows he can’t help it. “I thought you were _done_ going into the field.” 

“I was,” Bobbi admits. “For real. But he needs help, and there aren’t exactly a trove of senior agents left at his disposal. That he trusts, anyway.”

Clint chews on his thoughts before asking his next question. “When?” 

“Probably a month or so from now,” Bobbi replies evasively, drinking more. “He’s sending one of his agents into a Hydra camp and wants me around when they extract her. She’s a smart cookie academically, but apparently not the best at keeping herself below the radar.”

“Hmm.” Clint makes a noise that comes out sounding like a sigh and a groan all at the same time. “So would you go?” He finds her eyes, and Bobbi shrugs. 

“I think so. Beats sitting here running my own tests for more reports no one will read.” She pauses, picking at a loose thread on the cushion. “Besides, sometimes you just need something to distract you from everything else.”

Clint nods, because he knows what she means, and he also knows that Bobbi’s not dumb enough to make that connection haphazardly. He takes her free hand and squeezes it gently, almost surprised when she doesn’t pull away, instead squeezing back with the same gentle touch.

“I don’t know, Barton. Honestly, in a million years, I would’ve never asked you to call me. But maybe it’s a good thing you’re here.”

 

***

 

Their first FaceTime is while Bobbi is at work and while Steve is working on something in the living room, and Clint can hear the whir and crackle of a drill in the background. 

“What the hell’s that?” 

“Rogers is working on some table he bought from Ikea.”

Clint furrows his brow, adjusting the over-sized iPad so that he can see Natasha’s face better. “I thought Ikea was supposed to be a ‘you-can-put-this-together-without-tools’ kind of thing?” 

“Apparently, that’s up for debate,” Natasha says. She’s stretched out on the bed, the phone propped on a makeshift delicate stand. “How are you? Sorting things out?”

“Trying to, yeah,” Clint says, his voice muffled as he reaches for what Natasha soon realizes is coffee. “Kind of strange being with someone that knows you but doesn’t at the same time.” What he means is, it’s kind of strange living with someone who you were once so close to and now seem so apart from. Natasha feels like she can relate.

“Tell Clint I say hi,” Steve grunts as he walks in the room, throwing a glance to the bed. Clint gives a small wave as he walks back out.

“Gotta admit, though, I think that’s even stranger.”

“Steve building Ikea furniture?”

“That, too.”

Natasha smiles, tilts her head. “At least you know Steve.”

“You _know_ Bobbi.”

“We’ve never jumped out of a building together,” Natasha says matter-of-factly. “But really, how are you?” She watches the way Clint’s face changes, the lines around his eyes creasing, and waits for a response, ready to call him out if he tries to deflect.

“Been better,” he says slowly. “Couldn’t fall asleep last night. I don’t think Bobbi knew, I kind of just went to the bathroom for a long time and played the whole thing off like a stomachache. But at least it’s comforting to know that I’m not going to wake up and hurt you.”

“That’s the point of this whole thing,” Natasha mutters, and Clint nods.

“Yeah. I miss you, though.”

“Miss me, or miss my cooking?”

“Both, honestly.” He jabs at the screen suddenly, causing Natasha to flinch. “Sorry. Bobbi’s iPad gets all these fucking texts and I don’t know how to stop them...boring, too.”

Natasha closes her eyes, dropping her voice, even though she doesn’t think she can be heard over the sounds coming from the other room. “Steve keeps talking about going after the Winter Soldier.”

Clint moves his mouth back and forth. “Bobbi said she’s going back to the field in a month or so. An op for Coulson, possibly joining up with his team after.” Natasha knows that neither of them wants to ask each other what to do, because neither of them actually have an answer to that question.

“You know, sometimes I forget there’s only a river between us,” Clint says slowly when he finally speaks again.

“A river. And some docks,” Natasha agrees, pushing a hand through her hair. “And remember what you said? About breathing space?”

“Yes,” Clint says a little grudgingly. “I remember.”

“Besides,” Natasha continues. “If you come here looking like a mountain man, I might _literally_ kill you. And don’t you dare tell me Bobbi likes it.”

“Nah, she hates it,” Clint admits, stretching his face into the frame a little too closely, and Natasha swats at the air before he pulls back. “But honestly, I’m too lazy to shave every day. So I figure I have at least 48 hours before she tries to kill me.”

“Two days is being generous,” Natasha says flatly and Clint snorts. 

“Jesus, give me a break.”

“Shave your damn beard and maybe I will.”

“Miss you right back.”

 

*** 

 

“There’s a man in my apartment that’s not you,” Bobbi announces when she walks into the bedroom a week later, yanking open the shades, and Clint has about ten seconds to wake himself up before the smiling, overly cheerful face of Sam Wilson strides into his vision. He looks like he’s been up for longer than Clint’s rightfully been asleep, which is annoying in of itself.

“Who’re you?” Clint mumbles, even though he doesn’t really have to ask. If Sam cares about his attitude _or_ his apparent ineptitude, however, he doesn’t show it.

“Sam Wilson.” He extends his hand and Clint blinks through hazes of lingering sleep, reaching back.

“Nat call you?”

“Maybe.”

Clint groans as he sits up, shoving back against the bed. “What’s your resume?” he asks slowly, watching as the other man leans on the wall.

“Two tours.” Sam crosses his arms. “Also had a stint leading a survivor’s group down at the VA, before everything happened with Rogers.”

“Uh huh.” Clint gets up and walks to the bathroom, brushing his teeth in silence, before throwing water on his face and emerging to find that Sam has relocated to the newly vacated bed.

“Served in the military years ago,” Clint says, digging around in his bag for a spare shirt. “Did they tell you that?”

 _They_ \-- Natasha. But Sam’s answer seems to indicate that he understands what he means.

“Yes. Also, I read your files.”

“ _Great_.”

“Hey, there’s no more S.H.I.E.L.D., so it’s not like these things are confidential,” Sam says lightly. “Besides, I’ll let you read anything you want about me. I’m an open book.”

Clint snorts. “There’s a chance you might be in the wrong business,” he mutters as he pulls the shirt over his head, and Sam smiles wryly.

“So I’ve heard. But I figure at this point, it can’t be any worse than what I’ve already been through, right?”

Clint smiles weakly, and he can’t help but think the other man might have a point.

“Right. So…coffee?”

 

***

 

“I hung out in different places afterwards,” Sam says, once they’ve relocated to the diner down the street, once Clint’s changed into something he wouldn’t be too embarrassed to be seen in public with. They’re huddled in a booth, and Clint has all but demanded two refills of coffee by the time Sam has slid into the seat across from him. “My mom lives in Maryland, but it didn’t feel right to go home, so I spent a lot of time with Rogers at the hospital. And then a lot of time with him after he got released. Thought about taking off a couple times, to be honest.” 

“Why didn’t you?” Clint asks, reaching for his cup. Sam shrugs.

“I don’t know. I felt guilty, kept thinking I might be needed somewhere. Guess that wasn’t so far off the mark, right?”

“I’m not your project,” Clint says grumpily, feeling a little stung. “But in any case, thanks for the house call.” He grabs for a menu and tries to ignore the feeling of Sam’s eyes as they follow the movement of his body, and pretends to study the breakfast offerings with more diligence than he needs to.

“You’ve been having trouble sleeping, yeah?”

Clint freezes and then figures at this point, if he’s already here and _knows_ why he’s supposed to be here, it’s not worth it to keeping lying. Natasha would have his head for that, he knows, especially when she’s made the effort to find someone for him to talk to.

“Maybe.”

Sam crosses his arms. “I did, too. After I got back. You know what helped me?”

“Eating diner food? Talking about your feelings while singing group inclusion songs?” Clint asks sarcastically. Sam laughs, and the reaction is so out of the blue, Clint thinks there must be a joke hidden somewhere inside the sound.

“Running. Hell, just being active, even. I didn’t really know what to do with myself since I didn’t have anyone giving me orders anymore. So I spent a lot of time at the gym or on the bike paths. I could control myself when I was running. Stop, start when I wanted to. Go as far as I felt like.”

Clint rubs the side of his head. “Natasha runs,” he offers. “Or, she’s been running more, at least. I don’t even know if it helps her that much.”

“Rogers runs, too,” is Sam’s response. “It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. But you shoot, don’t you?”

“Course,” Clint says tersely, reaching for a napkin, and wiping it over some spilled coffee from the waitress’ latest refill. “But all my gear’s at my apartment. I didn’t bring anything with me when I came here.”

“Well, there’s always the range,” Sam reminds him, raising an eyebrow. “They got bows and arrows, don’t they?”

“So what?” Clint asks. He’s not overly fond of the idea of using someone else’s equipment, though he knows that wouldn’t be any type of issue with his background. Sam grins, leaning forward in the booth.

“So, I’m just saying. I do have a car.”

 

***

 

“Tasha?”

She doesn’t hear him at first because it doesn’t sound like him, because _Clint_ calls her Tasha. _Clint_. Not Steve. Steve knows that she likes black coffee and that she prefers to wear her hair curly instead of straight, but he doesn’t know her well enough yet for things like _Tasha_.

“Yeah?”

“You got a moment?”

Natasha rubs a hand over her eyes and gets out of bed, placing the book she’s been reading back on the nightstand before wandering into the living room, where Steve is sitting on the floor with shoe boxes and papers spread around him.

“I, uh. I figured this might be easier with two people. Wanna help me sort some stuff?”

“What stuff?” Natasha asks, squinting at the mess of papers. Steve shrugs, sitting back on his hands.

“Letters. Stuff from the war, and a few other things. I finally got around to opening those boxes Peggy gave me a few months ago.” He carefully avoids her eyes, moving another stack of papers over.

“And you want me to help,” Natasha says, sitting on the couch. She can faintly see a bit of writing on one of the discarded letters, the scrawl of _Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107 th, _and she averts her gaze as a shudder runs through her, though she’s pretty sure Steve doesn’t notice.

“Yeah. I mean, if you want.” He motions to the mess. “We can get Chinese or something after. I swear I didn’t take you in just so you could help me get my life in order.”

 _My name is Natasha Romanoff. I was in Odessa._ _I knew the Winter Soldier..._

_...no, that’s not right._

Natasha smiles faintly, moving onto the floor and reaching for one of the piles. “I think Sharon would be interested in helping you with her great aunt’s findings,” she says pointedly. “But this isn’t about Sharon, is it?”

Steve bites down on his lip, picking up a note and shaking his head. “If I want to go after Bucky, I need to get a grip on my past. More than what we went through with Hydra.”

Natasha nods. “You’re not wrong,” she agrees, picking up another letter. This one’s in cursive French, and it’s been a few years, but she’s got enough muscle memory of the language to figure out what’s being transmitted. She needs to get a grip on her past, too, before she goes off and tries to fix herself. But there are no letters and boxes and files to sort through, there’s nothing tangible that can be useful. There are only the memories in her mind, the ones that she knows might not even be real.

“You know, sometimes I forget that Fury was shot in front of me,” Steve says suddenly, breaking the silence, an unopened letter hanging loosely from his fingertips. “Bullet to the chest, from a window just like this. From Bucky.”

Natasha feels her lungs tighten, because the mention of Fury still hurts her in a way she hasn’t quite figured out how to process. “He wasn’t Bucky,” she says finally. “He wasn’t your friend, either. He was brainwashed.” She looks down. “There’s a difference.”

Steve sags a little bit and gives her a sidelong glance. “Yeah, I know.” What he doesn’t say is, _Clint didn’t kill all those people on the helicarrier, either_. What he doesn’t say is, _I know you get it, but I can’t ask you to find my best friend for me_. 

“I thought about moving, at first. Sam was willing to help and everything. I mean, hell, we even went apartment hunting together.” He forces out a laugh. “But I kept the place, in the end. I realized I wanted to. In case I ever needed someplace to go that wasn’t New York.”

“An escape,” Natasha echoes, picking up another shoebox. “A bolthole.” She has tons of them in almost every corner of the world, though they’ve been whittled down considerably in the past few years due to situations that have compromised them or enemies that have destroyed them. Steve nods.

“I never put down my roots anywhere, so I just thought…well, you gotta start someplace, right?” He hands her a stack of pictures and she takes it without hesitation, biting back a sound in her throat as her eyes fall on the top photo, dated and yellowed with colors of the past.

It’s Peggy Carter, she knows, and she thinks one day maybe she’ll be able to tell Steve that she’s more keen on Peggy than he probably realizes, including what she means to him. Her snide, drive-by comment at the bunker, the one that he had surreptitiously ignored, had never been followed up on, not even when she was sure Steve had put two and two together about Sharon and her lineage.

The girl standing next to Peggy is taller and thinner, with light blonde hair rolled into thick pincurls. Peggy’s mouth is set in a thin line, she’s smiling but just barely, and Natasha feels that the longer she stares, the more she can see the aches of her past bleeding through the photograph.

She doesn’t need to look at the other girl to know what’s hidden behind her smile.

“What’s up?” Steve asks, and Natasha realizes she’s frozen uncharacteristically with the photo in her hand. She turns it over slowly, her eyes roving over the fine print.

_Peggy Carter and Dottie Underwood. The Griffith, 1946._

“I’m taking a walk,” Natasha says suddenly, pushing herself up from the floor. “Before it gets dark.”

“It’s going to get dark in half an hour,” Steve says, frowning as he drops the letters he’s holding in his hand. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on,” Natasha says sharply, wrenching away as he reaches out. “I told you, I’m taking a walk.”

She leaves before Steve can stop her, slamming the door and realizing too late that she’s left without either her phone or her keys. She has half a mind to turn around and go back, but figures he’ll come after her soon enough -- and besides, it’s not like she’s never found a lock that she couldn’t pick.

Natasha races down the stairs and pounds the pavement, her thin shoes causing her heels to burn with potential blisters until she reaches a small public courtyard on the next block. It’s not that far from the apartment, but it’s far enough that she at least feels she can get some space, some air, and she sits down on one of the benches, sucking in deep breaths of approaching night.

“What the fuck was that?”

Natasha turns her head as Steve approaches, baseball cap covering his head, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and she can tell he probably didn’t even wait to follow her. _Just like Clint_. Granted, Clint probably would’ve given her enough of a head start to make her think she could get away before showing up and bitching her out for running. Steve didn’t know that, though. Steve knew fight and flight, not skill and stealth.

“Nothing,” Natasha says again as Steve sits down and he laughs, not kindly.

“You really expect me to believe that? You looked at a random photo and bolted out of my apartment like we were about to be bombed.”

“So what?” Natasha responds hotly. She doesn’t feel like going down this rabbit hole, not now, not yet, even though she knows she probably needs to. This is what she had wanted, wasn’t it? To heal, to open up, to worry that when she _did_ open up she didn’t have to worry about hurting the person she loved most?

“So, you ran out of there like you think I can’t recognize triggers,” Steve says wisely and he sounds a little put out. As her panicked haze begins to evaporate, Natasha recognizes he probably has a right to be annoyed, all things considered. No one got a pass in Avengers therapy for things like post traumatic stress and trigger warnings that left them either hulking into big green monsters or throwing themselves off balconies.

“The girl in the photo. With Peggy.”

Steve’s head snaps up at the mention of Peggy’s name and Natasha closes her eyes. “She was…her name was Dottie. She was in the Red Room.”

Steve stares at Natasha, looking visibly confused. “How is that possible?”

“How is it possible that Dottie was in the Red Room?” Natasha snorts. “Don’t kid yourself, Rogers. You know history better than anyone. Was S.H.I.E.L.D. around 70 years ago?”

“I --” Steve pauses, and she can almost see the thoughts slotting together in his brain. “So the Red Room was, too?”

“A version of it,” Natasha says, swinging her legs out. “It wouldn’t be called the Red Room for a long time. But whatever they did then, it was the same training. The same rituals.” She stops, her throat closing up. “Dottie was one of the first recruits, back in the 30’s. One of their best graduates.”

Steve frowns. “That still doesn’t explain what happened back there,” he says. “Something in the way you reacted…trust me. I know things, Nat. You don’t react like that unless you’ve had a personal experience with something. And this was _years_ ago.”

Natasha leans forward, putting her hands on her knees. “She trained me,” and when she looks up she thinks Steve’s entirely too confused to speak.

“The woman who looks about twenty-five in that photo. Trained you,” Steve says shortly. Natasha nods.

“Yes. I’m assuming that she must’ve gotten a version of the serum that you had, though I wouldn’t have realized it at the time.” She drops her voice. “To me, she was just one of my teachers. Someone that kept me in line. Someone that had the power to kill me, if I didn’t obey her orders.”

“Christ,” Steve mutters, reaching for her hand almost unconsciously and Natasha finds herself reaching back as their skin makes contact. “Natasha, I…I had no idea.”

_My name is Natasha Alianovna Romanov. I am thirty-two years old. I was born in Stalingrad, Russia._

“Yeah.” Natasha smiles. “You know what’s funny, Rogers? I didn’t, either.”

 

***

 

Clint stands at the range, staring down a target that seems to taunt him from afar. The bow isn’t his, the arrows aren’t his, and the weapon feels overall strange in his hand. But he knows he can shoot with anything, and so he doesn’t bother to protest when Sam hands him the borrowed gear, even though he acutely misses the feel of his own bow between his fingers.

“You said you served in the military,” Sam says as he hops onto one of the stools near where Clint is standing. Clint nods, watching an arrow perfectly skewer the head of the dummy with an ease that he knows probably looks ridiculous.

“Afghanistan,” he replies, nocking another arrow and leveling his arm. “After I left the circus, I got tangled up in the wrong crowd. Mostly petty crimes, but still enough to knock me off my ass for a bit. When I got on the wrong side of the law, I was offered a choice -- community service, or the army.” He releases his fingers, taking comfort in the familiar _twang_ of the bow, a sound he doesn’t normally get to hear when he’s in the field. “I had enough training that I could transfer my skills to handling a gun, and I didn’t want to be reminded of being homeless anymore. So I chose the army.” 

“And how did that work out for you?” Sam prods with a half-smile. Clint snorts, turning around.

“Well, it was the first time I killed anyone by accident. Also the first time I had to take sleeping pills at night. Made coming to S.H.I.E.L.D. a hell of a lot easier, though, in the end.”

Sam stays quiet as Clint swivels on his heel, raising his bow again.

“Did it change you? Being over there?”

“I don’t know,” Clint says honestly, concentrating on his shot. “Fucked up my head a bit, but I was already pretty fucked up, so that’s a poor indicator.” He pauses. “You?”

“Over there? It’s not black and white, but yeah, we all got our problems.” Sam crosses his legs, rocking back and forth. “It’s tough feeling displaced, no matter what the reason is. Hell, it happened when I came back from college.” 

“How long did it take you?” Clint asks curiously, and he’s not talking about college. Sam smiles knowingly.

“Well, the cookies helped. I mean it. Did I ever tell you about my mom’s amazing cookies?” 

“Fantastic, I’m sure.” Clint rolls his eyes as he releases the last arrow in his quiver, turning around and unwrapping his arm guards.

“So what now?” Sam asks, as if he realizes Clint needs to be the one to be in control, to make the decisions. “Anything you wanna do?”

Clint shrugs, laying the bow down carefully on the bench before straightening up.

“Well, Bobbi won’t be home for at least another four hours. Wanna grab a beer?”

 

***

 

Half an hour later, Clint’s sitting at a small East Side bar with Sam on one side of him and a loud television on the other. They order beer and wings and it feels comfortable; Natasha had indulged him in the typical guy activities on more than one occasion and more so on occasions when they were undercover and taking advantage of their surroundings. But there’s something Clint can’t quite articulate about how different it feels to sit here with Sam, who doesn’t seem to give a shit that Clint keeps ordering more alcohol.

“Natasha won’t let me have any more than three,” he says as he shoves an extra few dollars across the table for tip. “Says it’s bad.”

“Natasha ain’t here,” Sam says with a grin. “However, I’m also not dragging your drunk ass back to Morse’s place. I don’t know you _or_ her that well to be responsible for that.”

“Fine,” Clint says as he picks up his fourth drink. Sam raises an eyebrow. 

“I mean it, Barton. I _will_ cut you off.”

“All good,” Clint replies smoothly. “Promise. I don’t get hangovers.”

“Really.” Sam looks skeptical, and maybe it’s the impending inebriation, but the expression on his face makes Clint laugh.

“Spend enough time on a bender, you’ll learn how to control your body. Well, mostly.”

“Yeah.” Sam rests his elbows on the bar. “So you and Natasha --”

“We’re not mad at each other, if that’s what you’re trying to ask,” Clint interrupts, not bothering to scale back the intensity of his voice. Sam shakes his head.

“Nah, I never thought you were. But there’s nothing wrong with needing space, right? I mean, after what you guys went through?” He shrugs. “Shit, man. I would’ve needed space, if that was me.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Clint twists his fingers together under the table and stares across the bar, wondering how he can make the words in his head sound less pathetic out loud. “Look, I went through some bad shit in my childhood, okay? I grew up watching people hurt each other because they couldn’t control their feelings. I grew up being hurt because people couldn’t work out their own shit and Natasha…” He lets his words hang in the air, feeling the pressure of phantom hands around his neck. “Natasha is too important to me. I had to do this. 

“Natasha doesn’t exactly strike me as the kind of person who would go easily,” Sam observes, and Clint makes a face.

“She’s not. I had to drag her into S.H.I.E.L.D. all those years ago, even though it was kill or be killed. It wasn’t pretty. Had bruises for days, and everyone thought I got into some big brawl.”

“When?” Sam asks curiously, and Clint rubs a hand over his jaw.

“A little over nine years ago.”

“Nine _years_?” Sam asks incredulously, his eyes going wide. “But you’ve been at S.H.I.E.L.D. for over eleven.”

“Which would make at least eighty percent of my tenure there part of Strike Team Delta, yeah,” he validates. “I was initially sent to kill her, but I couldn’t do it. Long story. So she came in, I got her a job, and they made us partners. Took us awhile to get to…well, to this,” he say, gesturing to no one in particular. “I’ll spare you the visits to Medical and the arguments. But she’s my best friend, you know? I mean, it’s not like one day we were talking and the next day we were fucking. That took awhile, too. But I guess if you were to ask me, I’d say that I don’t really know when we changed.”

“You change when you get compromised,” Sam responds, and the answer is almost immediate. “At least, that’s what happened with Riley.” Off Clint’s confused expression, he digs his hand into his jacket pocket, coming away with his wallet. “My co-pilot,” he continues, opening the folds to expose a torn photo, and Clint takes it out, staring for a long time. 

“Everything about me, things I’ve never been able to tell people, it’s all there with Natasha,” Clint says slowly, handing the photo back. “Every last dirty thing I’ve ever done, good and bad. I trust her with my life.” He fights back the urge to down the rest of his drink as he thinks about how easily he had given up all her secrets, how Natasha would have _never_ broken that easily, not even if there was someone in her brain telling her what to do. Sam bobs his head. 

“Riley, too,” he says. “I kind of took a break from things after he died. Just had to get away for a bit, rebuild myself…also had to stop blaming myself for what happened, even though I knew it wasn’t really my fault. But it took me awhile to come back to a place where I felt comfortable being in my own skin again.”

“So what happened?” Clint asks, swallowing down the rock in his throat along with the rest of his beer, because fuck it all, his mind is a terrible fucking place to be right now. “I mean, all of this wasn’t exactly you sitting on the sidelines.”

“Dunno,” Sam says conversationally. “Guess you could say I found a reason to get back in.”

“You got into this mess by fangirling Captain America,” Clint confirms and Sam grins, clapping a hand down on his shoulder.

“And you got into this mess by crushing on an assassin. That makes us even, right?”

 

***

 

Natasha sits in Steve’s kitchen with her hands wrapped around a mug, staring at the black and white spread of pictures while Steve drums his fingers against the table.

“We start at the beginning,” Natasha had decided after they had made it back to the apartment, and she had noticed that the photo of Dottie and Peggy had been carefully moved out of her view as they relocated the prints. That sympathy lasted about five seconds, before Steve finally caught the way she looked a letter from Bucky, and stared at her with daggers until she had acknowledged his silent words.

“How long did you know?” _How long did you know and not tell me that you knew_. Natasha shrugs listlessly, because what does it matter what secrets were kept between them _then_? They trusted each other _now_ , and that was enough. It was enough for him to allow her to sleep in his _bed_ , for heaven’s sake.

“After Fury got shot,” she says hesitantly. “I had to do some research, make sure I was right, but that didn’t take long.”

“Long enough to buy four sticks of gum,” Steve mutters sardonically, and Natasha huffs out a groan.

“That was a terrible hiding place, Rogers. If I hadn’t covered your ass, we would’ve been a lot worse off than sharing a kiss at the mall.”

Steve blinks fast, pushing a hand through his hair. “ _Bucky_.”

“The Asset,” Natasha corrects with the same detached response that she feels she probably used in the Red Room once upon a time, and Steve winces.

“Jesus, do you know how fucking strange it is for me to hear you call my best friend that? Nevermind that he trained you. Maybe slept with you.”

“Do you think it’s any stranger for me to hear that he’s your _best friend_?” Natasha asks a little coldly as Steve closes his eyes. “He _did_ sleep with me, and he could’ve killed me.”

Steve swallows. “So is he the source of your nightmares?” and it sounds like it pains him to even ask the question.

“No. Not really,” Natasha says, keeping her tone neutral, because the response is only half true. “More like a part of them. There’s a lot of my life that I can’t remember, and he’s a piece that I can’t place.” _He was there, but he wasn’t._ “Before Odessa, I hadn’t seen him in years. Until Fury, I hadn’t seen him since then.” When she looks back at Steve, she sees the unasked question hanging on his lips.

“The Red Room made sure that we were in the dark about everything as much as possible.” _The Red Room made sure I could never come apart for anyone, until Clint._

“Hell of a way to live,” Steve murmurs, and Natasha is suddenly reminded of a conversation that now seems so long ago. She thinks of Clint and wonders what he’s doing, if he’s okay, if any of this is helping in the way that they both desperately hope it will.

“It’s a good way not to die, though.”

 

***

 

Sam walks Clint home a little after midnight, and Bobbi’s still out when Clint clumsily unlocks the door to the apartment. He can feel himself hovering somewhere between safely tipsy and not-quite-sober but doesn’t bother with the lights as he enters, instead choosing to flop face first onto the bed while caring little about his clothes, or the fact that he knows he should probably take a shower.

“Fuck off,” he mutters as memories push themselves into the edge of his mind, as if his body can sense the fact that he’s let his guard down and is fighting to take advantage of that fact. He rolls over and presses his face into the covers, figuring that Bobbi can shove him off herself if she wants to; he had told her he wasn’t fit to sleep with and somehow, like always, she had talked him into it.

_“Barton.”_

_“Sir.” Clint turns around, the bags on his shoulder feeling as heavy as the uniform that weighs on his skin, the uniform that he wants to strip himself out of and never put back on._

_“Barton, you are_ not _honorably discharged.”_

 _“By my standards, I am,” and if he leaves fast enough he thinks he doesn’t have to see the way his friends stare at him as if he’s some sort of traitor, the friends that he’s saved and shot and defended, and fuck the fact they had taken a fucking pledge, death til the end and scrawls of his signature across pieces of paper, he needed to_ leave _._

_“Barton!”_

It’s the sound of the bag dropped on the floor followed by the harsh light that wakes him, but it’s also the nausea rising up in his stomach that threatens to not back down. He has just enough time to consider the grim realization that Bobbi must be home before he’s rolling forward, bolting from the bed.

“Clint?”

He makes it to the bathroom right before he starts throwing up, and as he dry heaves, he thinks this might be the most miserable he’s ever been in his life, minus that time he got stranded in Manila with a broken jaw.

“Jesus Christ, Barton.” Bobbi toes off her shoes at the door and kneels down, helping him away from the toilet and dragging a washcloth across his face. “How much did you drink?”

“Didn’t…swear…ask Tash.”

“Natasha isn’t here,” Bobbi says curtly, though her voice takes on a bit of a sigh. “I am.”

“Got lots problems but drunk is’t one…” 

“Yeah, you keep telling me that,” Bobbi says as she grabs his arm, steering him towards the sink. “I married you at some point, remember? I saw all of your worst habits.”

“‘M serious,” Clint says a little more strongly as Bobbi hands him a small cup of water, which he drinks slowly. “Dream. Not drunk.” 

Bobbi doesn’t respond as she shoves him forward, letting him lean heavily on her shoulder, and Clint closes his eyes as he hits the bed again. He wants to laugh at the irony, the fact that for once in his life he’s _not_ using old crutches to help him escape his own mind. At least, not consciously. And so maybe old habits die hard and maybe he did have a few more drinks than usual and maybe it was for no other reason than to numb the pain, but he also knows that years ago, he would’ve been at the point where he couldn’t even remember his own name, let alone how to speak properly.

“Clint.” 

He opens his mouth to protest, praying that words will find their way out instead of more digested bar food, but then there are warm hands pulling the covers over him and through swimming vision, he feels himself relaxing, the previous need to defend himself seeping out of him like an open wound. 

“Is Natasha having these dreams too?” Bobbi asks quietly and Clint swallows. He doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t feel like he can, because as much as he wants to have the conversation, he also knows that it’s not his story to tell. Bobbi’s sigh indicates that she understands the meaning behind his silence.

“Well, let’s get you changed,” she says finally. “I’m not going to kick you out of bed for this, but I don’t want you to sleep with me smelling like shit.”

Clint makes a small noise as she strips off his soaked shirt, and finds himself thinking that if there was any perk to staying with your ex-wife, it’s that at least he doesn’t have to feel embarrassed about being seen naked or vulnerable. 

“Scoot,” Bobbi says decisively after she’s removed his pants, leaving him in his boxers, and Clint obliges, shifting to the other side of the bed as Bobbi gets in next to him.

“Thought you needed to change,” he says hoarsely, and catches her hand under the covers.

“Later,” she says tiredly. “I’ve slept in my clothes plenty of times before, you know that.” 

Clint nods. “I’m not drunk,” he repeats and Bobbi sighs loudly.

“Clint, I believe you. Okay? I do. But you _did_ go to a bar.”

“Sam and I,” he affirms thickly. “Went to a bar. That’s not why I got sick.” 

Bobbi doesn’t answer this time, and Clint bites down hard on his tongue, realizing she knows him too well to just let him sit here and wallow, and that for as long as he’ll stubbornly avoid the question, she’ll stubbornly sit in silence along with him, agonizingly baiting him into answering her by doing absolutely nothing.

“I left my team.” 

“What?” Bobbi sounds confused, and Clint thinks he can’t blame her, seeing as to how the comment is coming out of nowhere on her end.

“I left my team,” he repeats. “Back in the army. I was captured during a mission that went south. They asked me information, about my team, about the people I worked with, to try to get access to our weapons.” 

“And?” Bobbi asks, her voice softening. Clint knows he’s never really talked about his time overseas to anyone, but especially Bobbi, mostly because it was something he had swept underneath the rug enough so that it could act as a part of his past life. He sighs heavily. 

“And I didn’t give it up. I almost did, though. I couldn’t deal with that, with the fact that I almost betrayed my team because of something like being _tortured_.” He steadies his voice. “So when I had the chance, I just...I ran. Did the same thing with you. Did the same thing with S.H.I.E.L.D., when it fell. Did the same thing to Nat after New York. When I failed her. When I couldn’t keep her goddamn secrets, the ones that she trusted me with.” He can feel his words starting to slur more out tiredness than anything else. 

“Clint…” Bobbi shifts, blonde hair spilling over her shoulder in curly waves. “We’ve been over this. The divorce, everything that happened…that wasn’t on you. And I never blamed you, or S.H.I.E.L.D., or even Natasha.” She smiles sadly, tracing a finger down his cheek. “Some people just aren’t meant to be together.”

“Some people are,” he says automatically, and Bobbi puts her head against his own.

“You never were a mess, Clint,” Bobbi says, her voice low and vibrating against his scalp. “You know that, right?”

Clint nods, letting her keep her position, something warm and comforting in a different way than he would have felt -- _has_ felt -- with Natasha. It’s a feeling that makes him feel sad and relaxed and safe all at once.

“Yeah. I know.”

 

***

 

“I’m better, I think.” He’s sitting outside of Target, leaning back on one of the big red balls, waiting for Bobbi to make an exchange.

“Clint.”

“Come on, Tash. I said I was better.”

“There is no _better_ , Clint.” Natasha sighs over the phone. “You know that. You can’t play that card with me.”

“I’m _serious_.”

“Fine,” Natasha snaps. “Then I’m going to get in a car and drive to Manhattan and stuff a sleeping pill in you and take you home. Could you go right now and say that you were _better_?”

Clint makes a face as the truth of the words hit him, the overpowering fear of having to be in her presence while still not feeling entirely confident. “No,” he admits. “Not yet. I’m still…” He trails off, thinking of his talk with Bobbi. “I still have nightmares.”

“Okay. So we wait another week.” Her voice becomes gentle. “Don’t push this, Clint. It’s not worth it.”

“I know.” He scuffs a foot against the ground, and Natasha’s voice filters back over the phone.

“Let me see,” she says and he punches a few buttons as the call transfers to FaceTime. When she appears on the other end of the line, he holds up a hand guiltily.

“Didn’t hurt Bobbi, though. Just myself. Again.” He switches the phone back off video, hears Natasha suck in a sharp breath, and almost wants to remind her that they’re back to voice only, that she can let herself be vulnerable in a way he knows she’d rather not show him.

“Well, that’s good, at least.”

“Yeah. Score one for the fuck-up.”

“Do you really feel bad that you’re still having nightmares from years ago?” Natasha asks. “Look at who you’re talking to. My whole life can be measured in nightmares.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Clint. I told you, I’ll still be here. I promise. I’m not going anywhere, however long it takes for us to figure this out.”

He hears the emotion in her tone, knows it’s as close to _I love you_ as he’s going to get in the moment, and clenches his teeth.

“I know.”

 

***

 

“You never told me what happened after New York,” Bobbi says the next afternoon while standing over the coffee maker.

“Do you _need_ to know about New York?”

“I’d like to have known what happened, other than what I saw on the news,” she says as she hands him a mug. Clint groans.

“Don’t play dumb, Morse. You read the reports.”

“I read the reports, it’s not like they gave me your psych files.” Bobbi looks exasperated, and Clint cringes at the look on her face. “I’d like to at least know a little bit about what you went through. I think I’m owed that.”

Clint closes his eyes, crossing his legs underneath the table. “I freaked out, got a little too drunk for my own good, and Nat took me off the grid until I could calm down. Standard, right?”

Bobbi nods. “Yes.”

“I had to re-learn a lot of things. How to sleep, how to not be afraid...even how to shoot properly.”

Bobbi doesn’t respond for a half a beat longer than Clint thinks is normal. “That’s standard, too.”

“No, it’s not,” Clint refutes. “Not the way I experienced. But thanks for the reassurance.”

“Clint,” and now she’s sitting down across from him, pinning him with her gaze. “What you went through was unconventional, I know that. It wasn’t anything that anyone could have planned for or taught you how to deal with. But you’re not alone.”

“Try me,” he mutters, downing the coffee and Bobbi suddenly looks uncomfortable.

“The way Coulson came back, when he came back. The whole thing was...unconventional.” 

“Unconventional _how_?” Clint asks slowly, handing her his cup. Bobbi takes it without hesitation and gets up to grab the coffee pot.

“He was dead, Clint,” and there’s a tremor in her voice that Clint recognizes enough to know she’s not fucking around. “ _Dead_. The kind of dead you don’t come back from.”

“Yeah, so?” Clint grunts. “Obviously, he did.”

Bobbi sits down again, and he notices her hands are shaking slightly in a way that seems to match the tone of her voice. “Fury apparently told him that he was important enough to be part of an experiment. Something that they’ve been saving, to use in case the Avengers needed it.”

“Fury thinks Coulson’s an Avenger?” Clint can’t help the guffaw that accompanies his question, sending ripples across his coffee. “The man’s good at paperwork, sure, but he’s never been in the field with us.”

“Fury played with his brain,” Bobbi says, ignoring Clint’s comment. “Called it Tahiti, but they were really operating on him for days, and no one knows what happened in there.” She swallows, pressing her hands together. “He’s different, Clint. He’s...he was compromised.”

“But you’re going to go to him anyway,” Clint points out. “So clearly, he’s not _that_ bad, if he can lead a team, and if you’re not afraid to be in his presence.”

“I’m going to him for that, and for other things,” Bobbi says curtly. “That’s not your concern or your business. The point is, whatever was done to him, it was the same kind of unasked method. There’s no road map for learning how to deal with the fact that you’ve come back from the dead due to some magical workings.”

“I didn’t die,” Clint says a little loudly, though as the words exit his mouth he realizes he’s not entirely sure about that. By all accounts sometimes, he sometimes _feels_ like he had died, like he had sleep-walked through his time in Loki’s brain and woken up with a second chance that he felt like he didn’t really deserve, all because Natasha had decided to make it her mission to rescue him rather than leaving him in a version of his own personal hell. Bobbi raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, not theoretically,” he corrects when he finally continues. “But Coulson, he didn’t have to learn how to be a person again. He just got brought back and that was it, right?”

“He had to learn how to trust everyone again,” Bobbi says gently. “Like I’m assuming you did.”

Clint curls his fists, remembering the fights and the injuries and feeling a thin sheen of sweat break out over his back. “Natasha wouldn’t let me run,” he says, his voice wavering on the edge of something dangerously close to broken. “I tried.”

“Natasha’s good to you,” Bobbi says softly. “If she wasn’t, she would’ve let you suffer alone.”

Clint shakes his head. “She said no one deserves to suffer alone,” and as he says the words, he can almost see her face in his mind. Bobbi reaches for his hand and squeezes it gently.

 

***

 

“I come bearing food,” Sam says when he walks into the apartment after Bobbi has left for a briefing, rudely awakening Clint for the second time by knocking incessantly on the door. “Cookies, actually. My mom’s, but made by me, so hopefully they’re passable. And I’d apologize, but apparently they don’t make cards for ‘sorry I made you talk about your past life and then got you hungover.’”

Clint shoves a hand across his eyes, wiping excess sleep from the corners of his lids. He closes the door as Sam walks inside.

“I forgive you. Or at least, my head does.”

“Good.” Sam smiles, holding up a green fabric bag. “Because I brought some video games, and I want it to be a fair fight. None of that stuff like ‘I’m too drunk’ or ‘I was in the army longer than you were’, okay?”

Clint laughs in spite of himself as he helps Sam set up the portable player, hooking it into the jacks on the back of Bobbi’s television.

“Talk to Natasha?” Sam asks as he takes out the controls, and Clint nods.

“She texted me this morning. Something about Steve and letters.”

“Barnes,” Sam says almost absently, and Clint looks up in confusion as he takes a console from his friend’s outstretched hand.

“The Soldier?”

“Yeah.” Sam straightens up. “Rogers is going to go after him, gonna try to find him and bring him home.”

“I know,” Clint says, remembering Natasha’s words. “And you’re going to go with him.” It’s not a question, but it doesn’t need to be. Sam shrugs.

“It’s something to think about,” he says. “That whole thing about getting back in. I want to. I do. But I’ve also gotten comfortable. You know how it is.”

Clint gives a half-smile. “I do,” he admits, and Sam gives him a look.

“You’ve gotten comfortable with Bobbi.”

“Yes. Well, no,” Clint hedges, letting out a sigh as he flops onto the couch, fighting his lingering hangover. “Not really. We’ll always kind of just exist as something that we were never meant to be. Something that we pretend works, but that can never be real. I can see that now, after being with Nat.”

“And the dreams?” Sam asks as if they haven’t had this exact conversation less than 48 hours ago, although Clint knows he’s not asking the same questions now as he was then.

“I don’t know,” he says after a long pause. “Getting physical and losing my shit with Nat freaked me out. Then she went and lost her shit, and that freaked me out even more. We don’t do that stuff anymore, you know? I mean, not that we don’t. That’s who we are, I guess. We do get physical. We’re used to it. I’ve given her half her bruises.” He smiles faintly. “But ever since all this went down, I feel like I’ve lost control of myself again.” He arches his neck as Sam sits down next to him.

“We all fuck up,” Sam says, handing Clint a controller. “I see people every day who are fucked up. But see, you have me. And you _have_ Natasha.” He flicks on the television, leaning back. “So the difference is, are you gonna do something about how you feel, because you’ve got people in your life who will stay with you after you fuck up? Or are you gonna let yourself wallow in your own thoughts and run away from things forever?” 

“This is a fucking terrible pep talk,” Clint grouses, tucking his legs underneath him, squinting at the screen. He throws his hand forward. “And you stole my favorite character.” 

Sam smiles. “Come on, Barton. I didn’t come here for a pep talk. I came here to kick your ass at some video games.”

 

***

 

“So you were in Russia,” Steve says, looking at her. They’re lying on their backs on the roof of Steve’s apartment with the slightly warm breeze of spring wafting through their hair, and Natasha’s already promised that she’ll talk to his landlord about the broken lock that she’s managed to pick. “Is that where you were born?” 

_My name is Natalia Alianovna. I am thirty-two years old. I am a spy._

“Yes,” she affirms because that much, she knows, is true. “It’s where I lived, too. It’s where we all were in the Red Room.” 

“So _he_ was in Russia,” Steve says, as if he’s trying to make sense of things and Natasha realizes that he probably is, considering the last time Steve saw his friend before a few weeks ago, he was watching him fall to his death from a high speed train in the Alps at least fifty years earlier.

“You said that whatever Zola did to him helped him survive his accident,” Natasha points out, turning over on her stomach. “I’m guessing after they found him, that’s when they made him into who he is now. The person he was when they brought him to us. I didn’t know that then, but I wouldn’t have. I didn’t know he was a man with any kind of history. I just knew him as one weapon training another one.”

“Then he wouldn’t have come to you until at least the 90’s,” Steve proposes, and Natasha shakes her head.

“Late 80’s. Maybe early 90’s. I remember him from before I was a teenager, because that’s when my training happened.” _That’s when my nightmares started_ and sometimes it unnerves her that she can remember that, that she can remember _exactly_ when it all fell apart but she still can’t remember how to put herself back together. “I came to S.H.I.E.L.D. in 1999,” she continues, and she recognizes it’s the most open she’s ever been about her life with anyone, save for Clint. “After Barton brought me in.”

Steve sits up suddenly. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “All that time?”

 _I didn’t know. I still don’t know_. “Apparently,” Natasha mutters back, putting her hands behind her head, staring up at the sky. Steve frowns, and then lies back down again.

“I wonder if New Mexico has stars,” he says suddenly, and Natasha furrows her brow, giving him a confused look.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “It’s just...he was last seen in New Mexico. Bucky. At an air base, according to what Hill told me. That’s where he’s apparently hiding out. I wasn’t supposed to have that information, but I guess they’ve been tracking him because they know I’m going to make a fool out of myself and try to go, anyway.”

“Clint was in New Mexico,” Natasha says absently, tears stinging her eyes. “When Loki happened.”

“I know,” Steve says a little helplessly, as if he’s trying to bridge a gap from the past that they’ve mostly filled, but they’re not sure how to finish off. 

“I killed Clint,” Natasha says quietly, and it feels like something is breaking inside of her as she says the words. “In the dream that I had before we split up, I killed him. I watched him sleep, I thought about what I was doing, and I put a knife into his throat. I let him bleed out and I _enjoyed_ it.” She blinks rapidly. “How do you live with that? With knowing that’s what your dreams give you when you lose yourself, when you thought you had found all the ways to destroy those thoughts?”

“He probably thought the same things about you, after New York,” Steve offers and Natasha bites back a cry.

_I know he did. I know because I helped him off that ledge. I held his head when he threw up and I held his fists back when he tried to fight. Loki told him he would hurt me in every way he knew I feared. I knew what he meant by that._

“I need to be with Clint,” she says suddenly, because she does, and from the way Steve’s body tenses she’s worried that maybe she’s found a way to upset him after all. Steve hesitates and then nods and Natasha feels a part of her clam up.

“I know you do.”

She curls into him on instinct and wraps her arms around his body, and tries not to think about how it’s odd to be with someone who’s not Clint. Steve’s body is wider and more firm, it doesn’t have curves in the places that she knows so well, the dents and the imperfections and the scars that she can trace in her sleep, the parts of the puzzle that fit her so securely, the body that she’s gotten used to holding in times of comfort. But then Steve puts one hand on her back and it’s warm and it’s strong, and she remembers Sam’s apartment, and she remembers the bunker, Steve’s palms on her skin as he scooped her broken body out of the rubble after the explosion, and she thinks that maybe it isn’t so bad to have people that care about you after all.

 

***

 

Sam stays long enough for dinner and a tie-breaking round of Tekken (“if you whoop my ass again I will have your head on a _platter_ , Barton”) and Clint’s asleep on his side of the bed before Bobbi even gets home. When he finally does open his eyes, he’s surprised to find himself still alone, given that he was sure right before he passed out he had felt Bobbi climb in on the other side. He sits up and struggles to see in the dark, recognizes Bobbi’s thin form accentuated by what he knows is her tact suit and batons as she lingers by the doorway.

“Skipping out?” he asks, his voice rough with sleep, and he adjusts his pillow, catching the guilty look across Bobbi’s face as she turns, her features shadowed by the light coming through the window. She’s standing at the doorway with her gun strapped to her holster, her hair shoved in a messy ponytail. 

“I wasn’t trying to,” she admits with a level of sincerity that he knows means she’s telling the truth. If Bobbi wanted to sneak out and leave, she would absolutely be able to do so without alerting him otherwise. “But if you don’t want me to go --”

Clint shakes his head. “No,” he interrupts, sitting up slowly. “Go. I’ve never held you back from a mission.”

“Except for the fact that you have,” Bobbi says a little sarcastically, crossing her arms. Clint gives a lopsided smile.

“I’m going to call Natasha and go home. We’ll figure things out.” 

“You played video games for 24 hours and you’ve been unable to sleep, and now you’re telling me you’re just _okay_ to call Natasha and go home?” Bobbi asks skeptically. Clint squares his jaw as he considers his thoughts, because he knows there’s no way he can explain what he feels. He’s been through this, the nightmares and the removal from the things seem overwhelming, and he knows that the last thing they need is to come back together, to prove that they can be with each other again, complete the last parts of their healing. 

“Yeah. I think I just…need to be with her, you know?”

Bobbi lets out her breath in a rush of air. “Well, if it helps, your instincts were always right,” she says after a moment. “It’s the one thing I never bothered to fight you on.”

Clint nods. “I feel like I needed that.”

“Translation in Clint Barton terms: you feel like you should owe me for this,” Bobbi responds purposely and Clint looks up, feeling chagrined.

“Yeah, well. That too.”

Bobbi shakes her head. “You’re _you_ , Clint. Come on, you don’t need to owe me anything at this point. Can’t we just leave it at that?”

“And my nightmares,” Clint says as Bobbi walks back towards the bed, sitting down on the mattress, clicking her boots together. She takes his hand in her own, and it’s achingly reminiscent of how they used to leave each other when they separated for an assignment. 

“When I come back from Hydra, I’d prefer for you not to have your nightmares,” she says, squeezing his palm. “But I would like you to be okay with Natasha.”

He nods, gripping her palm tightly, taking in the warmth. “Tell Coulson I said hi. Oh, and that I know I’m not supposed to know he’s alive, but apparently, when you spend time with your ex-wife, you get told a bunch of secrets.” 

Bobbi breaks their connection to swat at him, and Clint watches a little forlornly as she gets up and walks out of the apartment, leaving him in silence and darkness.

 

***

 

When Natasha makes her way into the kitchen the next morning, she’s both surprised and not surprised to see Steve sitting in the kitchen, shoving his feet into large boots. She crosses in front of him without speaking.

“So you’re leaving,” she says as she grabs for the coffee pot, turning to stare at Steve, who’s gotten up from the chair and is now standing in front of her. She takes in his bomber jacket, his sunglasses and the pack on his shoulders, and it feels like she’s waving him off for a walk.

“I gotta.”

“I know,” and she hates the way her voice sounds. She hates feeling like she needs people when she’s spent so long convincing herself she can function alone, and sometimes it feels like she still hasn’t accepted the fact that she can’t. “Are you taking Sam with you?”

Steve nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Probably. I mean, if he wants.” There’s a pause, and Natasha uses the silence to drink her coffee, trying not to wince as the hot liquid burns her throat.

“I can stay,” Steve offers after a beat, and he looks so uncertain that Natasha shakes her head almost immediately.

“You should go. You need to do this. Besides, it’s not like I can’t find my own way home.”

“Yeah,” he says, squinting at her. “Couple of train stops and all that. Are you okay?”

“I’m…” Natasha searches for the right word, thinking of Clint and puts her mug down. “I’m better. I will be better,” she amends, stepping close and giving him a hug. It’s easier now to fold into him, it’s not exactly Clint but it’s more comfortable than it was a few weeks ago, and she thinks that she might be finally learning the edges of his body, drawing her own unique map in a way that she knows no one else probably ever will – not Sharon, not Peggy, not even Sam.

“Good luck with Bucky,” she says as he pulls away. _Don’t call me, but call me when you need to_ , she doesn’t say, because she suddenly doesn’t know how, but she thinks he gets it when he leans over again and kisses her on the cheek the way she had done back at the cemetery. It’s chaste and sweet, nothing like the way Clint would kiss her, but also nothing like the way Steve probably would’ve kissed her three weeks ago.

“See you when you run,” and then he picks up his bag and salutes almost comically, and Natasha is left with the television droning in the background and the sound of her own breathing echoing too loudly in her ears. She walks to the couch and folds the blanket carefully, dutifully placing it back on the bed, and then picks up her cell phone, fingers flying over the keys before she changes her mind and hits a number instead. 

“Hey,” and his voice sounds a little surprised and slightly hopeful all at once. She speaks before she can stop herself, suddenly wanting nothing more than to wrap her arms around his body. 

“I think I’m ready to come home.”

His breath hitches on the other end of the line, and if she wasn’t already feeling so vulnerable, she knows she’d probably tease that he might cry.

“Yeah. Me too.”

 

***

 

She makes it back to the apartment before him, although she’s not surprised; travel time from the Upper East Side was going to be a bitch during rush hour and she knows he won’t bother to spend the money to take a cab. Natasha drops her bag on the floor, unsure of what she expects to see. Neither of them have been in the apartment for over a month, and the place looks less lived in than when they’ve abandoned it for missions and safe houses.

She cleans a few dishes in the sink, scrubbing ancient grease off the plates with brute force, and then starts to unpack her clothes in the bedroom. She’s about halfway done when she hears the door open, the soft click as it latches shut, and even though she can’t see him, she can envision it clearly -- Clint pulling the chain against the lock, tongue pressed into the side of his cheek in concentration, brow furrowed in suspended time as his mind lingers on whether or not it’ll be enough to truly _hold_ , should someone want to come knocking down their door.

“Hi,” she says quietly when she turns around. He looks different, his hair is longer and his shaved beard has more stubble than she would normally feel comfortable with. But underneath the worn lines of his face and the shaggy demeanor that looks entirely unlike the S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued personality he always fought so hard to maintain, she recognizes something that looks and feels achingly like home.

“Hi,” he says slowly, putting his bag on the floor. “When did you get back?”

“A few hours ago,” Natasha says, taking a shirt out of the bag and refolding it for no reason. “I figured you wouldn’t take a cab.”

Clint laughs shortly. “No. No, not really.” He looks down, and Natasha folds her arms. There’s a strange nervousness stretching between them, like something is missing, like they’re both trying to talk but can’t find the words, like they don’t know who should make the first move. Natasha steps closer.

“Talk to me,” she says quietly and he shakes his head. She sighs, because she knows they’re not used to doing this verbally, that sometimes it feels like they don’t even know how to speak if it’s not by using their bodies. It’s what propels her to reach up and grab for the back of his neck. She kisses him gently, allowing him to relax at the feel of her, and realizes almost instantly how long its been since they’ve touched. For some reason, he feels brittle underneath her hands, so much so that she finds herself almost worried she’s going to break him.

“I missed you,” she says as her hands trail down his neck, her nails scraping against his skin enough for her to feel the way he shudders uncontrollably, becoming a little more malleable in her grip. He’ll come apart first, because he always comes apart first, even when they’re nowhere near fusing their bodies together. But she likes it that way. She likes when he opens up that way in front of her because it makes her feel like he trusts her, like there’s nothing stopping him from _wanting_ to be hers in a world where no one has ever wanted her before. Clint threads his hands through her hair, grabbing for the side of her face as he moves his mouth over her own, his tongue tracing her jawline and then her throat, using his lips to suck at the hollow of her neck. 

“Natasha,” he murmurs against her skin as she moves her head so she can wrap her mouth around his ear, as if she needs to remember how he feels. _Natasha_. She pulls back, looping her hands through the waistband of his jeans, where she can already feel his cock straining in a way that she knows will soon become more than just a little uncomfortable. 

“I want a safe word.”

Clint raises his head and meets her eyes, confusion replacing dizzying films of lust. “This…” He swallows. “This isn’t that kind of sex, you know. Unless, I mean…unless you want.”

Natasha stares up at him and takes a breath, mentally saying the words in her brain before she pushes them through her lips.

“Yeah. I do want.”

Clint draws back a little further, their moment temporarily broken, and Natasha surveys him carefully.

“You need control,” she continues, her voice level. “I need control. And I need to do this for myself so I can prove that we can be okay around each other.”

“And suddenly kink sex is the answer to that?” Clint asks slowly. “I…look, I’ll do it. Okay? Fuck, I’ll do anything you want me to, if you give me permission. But I need to be sure this won’t be a mistake.”

_It’s about control, Dottie had said when she found Natasha huddling in the corner, the rags and bones of starvation eating away at her body. That is the only way you’ll survive here, Natalia. You need to learn control._

“It won’t be,” Natasha says firmly and she hopes he can understand what she’s saying -- that she wants a safe word not just for herself, but because she wants to be able to know he can anchor himself, that he’s not going to zone out into one of his daydreams and that she’s not going to break and hurt him. She wants a safe word so that if one of them goes too far, both of them can bring the other back. She knows that _he_ knows she wouldn’t be so strict about this, unless she truly cared about the possible consequences.

“Okay,” Clint relents finally. He pauses, sliding away from her, separating their bodies. “Glock.”

Natasha almost laughs because the glock was her first real weapon that wasn’t a sniper rifle or a knife, and it was also the first real measure of trust that she had been afforded not just by Clint, but by anyone in her life. It’s a strange as hell safe word, she’s aware, but it’s never been that easy with them; it’s always been about unconventional things that were explicitly theirs in the way they could never quite be anyone else’s.

“Glock.”

Clint nods in response. “What do you want to use, then? Rope?” He suddenly looks uncomfortable and Natasha can’t push away the hurt she feels as she takes in his appearance, wanting nothing more than to erase the expression and lines of worry from his face forever.

“No.” She walks to the drawers on the far side of the room and shuffles through some clothing, rummaging around until she unearths a box. “These.” She takes out two pairs of silver handcuffs and turns, holding them out.

“Handcuffs?” Clint raises an eyebrow. “We’re going there?”

Natasha presses her lips together, ignoring the mirth in his tone and reminding herself that it comes from a place of ignorance. She sees the look in his eyes, understands the hesitancy and also the surprise behind his question -- this kind of play isn’t new to them in any capacity, but then again, she isn’t usually the one who insists on being submissive. Normally, it was Clint who opened up in that way, who wanted to be controlled. Normally, it was something Natasha preferred, because it suited them better to be in positions they were more comfortable with, mentally. But then, Natasha knows she’s never really told him _why_ she’d rather be dominant in these cases, why it made her uncomfortable to feel controlled or what it means to suddenly want to _not_ be.

“They handcuffed me,” she says, holding his gaze. “To the bed. They did it to all of the girls in the Red Room. It was the only way we could be taught restraint…and also the only way they knew that we wouldn’t kill each other in our sleep.”

Clint stares at her, moving his lips wordlessly before she speaks again.

“I know you didn’t know,” she continues. “Because I’ve never told you that.”

“And…” She can almost see his brain processing her words and what they mean in relation to her previous request. “And you want to use these….now?”

Natasha nods. “Control, remember?” _Control, Natasha_. “If you can make this about you -- about _us_ \-- then maybe I can stop thinking these memories are things that exist just to torture me.”

“And you think this will help _me_?” he counters, crossing his arms. Natasha draws herself up as much as she can and it feels like they’re preparing to sign some sort of contract, but with their feelings and words rather than a pen and paper.

“Yes,” she says slowly. “I do. You dream of hurting me. That you’re not good enough, and that no one will want you to stay because of the things you’ve done. The things Loki _made_ you do, the things you thought about doing to me.” She sees the thin film that glazes over his eyes as he blinks, the truth of her words reflected in his pupils. “If you do this to me, I promise you can be mine. You can be mine, and you can make me feel good. And I’ll let you stay.” She swallows. “I’ll let you stay, even though you’ll hurt me.”

Clint waits another moment and then takes the cuffs from her, a silent acknowledgement of her words. “We haven’t done this in months,” he says, his voice still quiet, and Natasha reaches for his arm, letting her fingers come to rest on his skin.

“I know.”

She strips off her top and her bra, removes her pants and her underwear, and then sits down on the bed, motioning with one hand. He follows; she sees him eye her carefully as he opens the handcuffs, attaching one to her right wrist and the other to the bed. Before he’s completely finished, Natasha swings her other arm up to the headboard, looking at Clint expectantly.

“I hope you have the keys for this thing,” Clint grumbles as he secures the second pair, attaching her other wrist to the bedpost, and Natasha shrugs nonchalantly as much as she can. It’s freeing, at least, to feel like she can lie here completely naked and vulnerable and at the same time, feel protected and secure.

“No.”

“ _No_?”

“Oh come on, Barton,” she says with a long sigh. “Don’t think I couldn’t get out of these in a second if I needed to.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, sitting down on the bed. “Yeah, okay.” He takes off his own shirt and wiggles out of his pants, and Natasha tries to swallow down the guttural moan that she finds herself emitting when his cock breaks free from his boxers, ready and hard. She stretches out, the cool air from the open window raising goosebumps along her skin, and pokes his thigh gently with her toe.

“I want you. Now.”

That gets his attention, seems to snap him out of whatever haze he’s been letting himself fall into; whether it’s his past or Loki she’s not sure but she’s determined not to let his psyche win this round, not when it’s won every other, even if it means the rules need to be slightly bent in order for her to be the one to push him into this. He obeys, climbing on top of her, straddling her body.

“I want you,” she repeats, leaning as much as she can into his erection, and Clint puts his hands on top of her wrists as he leans forward, closing his mouth over her own.

Natasha feels something hot shoot through her stomach, and she can’t tell if it’s a thrill or if its nervousness or both, but there’s something about the way he touches her that’s always spurred feelings she’s never been able to feel from anything or anyone else. She breathes out his name as he moves to the underside of her jaw, still holding firmly to her wrists, writhes against the restraints as he gently licks at a sensitive spot right below her chin before working his way down to her shoulders, his hands dropping so that he can run his fingers lightly over her breasts. His mouth closes over one nipple that she knows is already hard and he sucks carefully. Natasha feels her breathing quicken as his lips massage the skin that’s becoming angrier with each move.

“I missed you,” he says as he licks around her chest, up her sternum, clutching her breasts with both hands and squeezing tightly. “I missed you so much.”

“I know,” she says as she arches and he sticks a finger in her cunt, digging deep until she’s writhing underneath him. He’ll continue his work there until she comes, she knows, and it’s part of what he takes pleasure in controlling -- the fact that he may only come once during the night, but he can make her come at least three times before his cock even enters her. She feels the pull of the cuffs as they chaff against her skin, and when he slides down she kicks out with her foot.

Her earlier aggression seems to have done the trick because he ignores her, even as she kicks again, her chest heaving from a smaller orgasm that his fingers have already brought on. Clint pulls back, his eyes finding hers as he plays with his cock, running his fingers over the tip, going just slow enough that he’s straddling the line between painstaking and tantalizing. It only causes more warmth to curl through her stomach as her mind anticipates what she knows she’s going to get, and what her brain is screaming that she needs.

He moves closer to the bed again and spreads her legs apart with two hands. Natasha feels the warmth of his tongue as he enters, licking gently at the folds of her clit and she bites back a moan, her teeth cutting through her lips so hard that she tastes blood. Her arms ache from their position of being strained as she tries to push her body forward against its will, her muscles screaming in protest, and she feels the tears spring to her eyes before she can stop them.

“Nat?”

Goddamn, and he had to choose _that_ fucking moment to look up when he was otherwise too concentrated on eating her out. Natasha makes a mental note to shut the lights off next time so that their faces aren’t entirely visible to each other as Clint pulls back slightly, looking concerned, his gaze flitting to her wrists, which she knows are red and already lightly bruised.

“Do we --”

“No,” she interrupts with a growl, arching up again with a gasp that she can’t control. “No safe words. I’m okay.”

He gives her a skeptical look and she wants to scream because it feels like he can see right through her, because she knows he can. She’s _not_ okay, she knows that, but it has nothing to do with what they’re currently doing.

“You sure?”

She nods again and he looks a little worrisome, she sees the lines on his face that show it, but he leans over again and begins fingering her once more, alternating between rubbing his pointer against her cunt and rubbing his cock against roughly her folds. A cry forces itself from her lips and finds herself trying to reach his body to no avail, the handcuffs holding tight.

Clint maneuvers himself so that he’s straddling her again, until she can just barely reach his dick by stretching her head forward. He’s giving her permission but also making her work for it, and she feels the muscles in her neck straining as she bobs her head desperately, trying to reach his cock. Her tongue manages to graze the head and it’s a tease, the worst kind, the kind that shoots a hot flash through her stomach and makes her think she might come at that moment.

“Like that?” Clint asks a little too harshly and she nods frantically, her entire upper body screaming in discomfort, the only thought in her mind being that she needs to taste him, that she needs to touch him, and she feels simultaneous flashes of anger mixed with humiliation at the fact that he’s not allowing her what he knows she’s almost killing herself for. The thought barely passes through her mind before he inches closer, and she latches onto his dick forcefully, sucking in alternating speeds, feeling as though she’s reacquainting herself with not only his body but with his rhythm as well. Everything hurts -- she can feel the spots on her wrist being aggravated by her current motions and her arms are on fire, but the pain only jumpstarts her, makes her more delirious, and Natasha feels him quake underneath her, legs that previously had been so firm around her thighs flattening out in the wake of her actions.

She loses track of how long she goes down on him, her mind swirling with adrenaline and a pleasure that makes her feel like she’s got enough energy to go on for hours. But even in her haze, Natasha knows Clint. She knows his body and she knows his tells and she knows after so many years of sleeping together when he’s going to release, letting go before he fully can.

Natasha slides her head back, her lips numb and red, and finds his eyes while running her tongue over her lips, tasting his scent and allowing herself to revel in it. She sees him lick his own lips in return -- a hunger, no doubt, that needs to be satiated. Knowing that he wants it, that he’d go so far as to _hurt_ her for it if it came down to that, almost puts her over the edge for the second time.

“I need you,” she says breathlessly, and she knows this isn’t how it’s supposed to work -- she knows that he’s supposed to be the one calling the shots, but the words fall out before she can stop them. Clint doesn’t hesitate, sliding his cock cleanly inside her and pressing deep. She cries out at the first thrust, it’s brutal and it hurts more than she wants to admit but in a strange way, it’s like some sort of catharsis, like they need to be this intense with each other to put themselves back together, to prove that in this fucked up power struggle, it didn’t have to end with the fact that pain instantly meant fear.

“God, I love you,” Clint mutters as he drops his head to her shoulder, his teeth sinking into her skin, and she feels the sting of torn flesh followed by a trickling wetness. Her wrists are screaming and she can barely move, but he’s taking control now and they’re moving in sync in a way that makes her feel like she’s burning, and then her orgasm hits her without warning. The fact that his mouth goes slack makes her realize he’s come as well, whether it’s from her own doing or something else that they’ve done, and she lets herself relax, her body giving out and her lungs tight as she tries to catch her breath.

Clint picks his head up off her body, brushing blood and shredded bits of skin from her shoulder, and she meets his eyes while trying to hold back another round of tears.

“Key,” Natasha says, knowing how shaky and weak her voice sounds, but not entirely caring. “Drawer.”

He nods slowly as he slides away, opening the drawer and fumbling as he inserts the silver key into the small lock of each cuff. They fall open easily and Natasha lets out a cry as her arms drop to her side, her wrists stinging, the space near her underarms throbbing in pain.

“Hey,” Clint says gently, sitting back on the bed and gathering her in his grasp. Natasha presses herself into him as she struggles to breathe, taking in his solid body, and he rubs his own hands against her arms while gently bringing the blood back to limbs that are numb and cold. “You’re okay.” She closes her eyes as he keeps up the soothing repetition of words, letting them wash over her like a wave as her body tries to readjust itself from everything she’s just inflicted on it.

“Are you?” she asks raggedly after what feels like forever and Clint laughs a little, smoothing back her hair.

“I will be.”

He sits with her until she’s slowed her breathing enough to feel like she’s come back to herself, and then heads to the kitchen to grab a Gatorade. While she drinks, he retreats to the bathroom to gather bandages, wetting a washcloth that he rubs gently against her broken skin.

“I knew you were lying about the key,” he says a little too lightly and she meets his eyes.

“You should’ve. Either way, it didn’t matter.”

“Either way,” Clint agrees softly, pressing a band-aid over the cut on her shoulder before spreading antiseptic over her wrists. She remains silent as he wraps a bandage around her right hand, where the cuffs have made a deeper and darker mark, and Natasha realizes with a start that now both of them have injuries specific to their struggles. Clint realizes it too, she thinks, when he freezes with his own healing cuts pressed against her fresh ones.

“I know why you had to do that,” he adds after a long time. “I didn’t before, but now I do.”

Natasha swallows down a mouthful of sugar-coated water. “I wish I could forget,” she says. “All of it. Everything that made me like this.”

“Is that what you really want?” Clint asks, finishing his work and climbing back into bed. Natasha puts the bottle on the table and curls into him automatically, shaking her head, feeling the tremors snake through her body. It’s the same thing for him, she knows, and the same thing that she had said after New York.

It wasn’t enough to simply forget what Loki had done, what Clint had done under that spell -- he was unmade now, it was something that would never go away and a part of him that he would always need to manage and recognize, as much as he wanted to forget about it.

“Can I ask you something?” She doesn’t bother to wait before she continues. “Did it help?” _Being with Bobbi_ , she adds silently, and knows she doesn’t have to say it.

“Yeah. I think so,” Clint says. “She helped me realize that…that things aren’t always my fault. That I’m not really that much of a mess, you know?”

“I could’ve told you that,” Natasha says hoarsely, trying to infuse her voice with something resembling humor, the way they used to banter with each other after sex, but something feels off.

“You could’ve,” Clint replies and Natasha wraps one sore arm around his chest. “You know, I was worried Sam would think we were mad at each other.”

“Sam’s smarter,” she says a little drowsily, recognizing the way her body is starting to come down from the adrenaline high, the rigidness in her bones giving out like someone has turned them to liquid. She closes her eyes, feeling Clint’s arms tighten as she slackens against him.

“I kinda figured that out,” he says with his lips next to her ear, and _I know_ , she wants to say. She doesn’t. He keeps himself silent, taking one wrist in her hand, his fingers gently thumbing the cuts and bruises on her skin.

She falls asleep to the rhythm of his pulse, and the handcuffs lie forgotten on the pole of the bed.

 

***

 

When Natasha opens her eyes the next morning, it takes her longer than a few minutes to figure out where she is. The bed is more comfortable than Steve’s mattress and the body next to her fits more securely than the one she’s gotten used to latching onto at night, broad shoulders replaced by muscular arms that she knows like the back of her hand, that she can trace the scars of.

Clint’s sleeping soundly next to her, taking up most of the bed in the way that she knows is trademark, a way she used to make fun of until she found out that the reason he was used to sleeping like that was because of the fact that he never had anyone else to worry about. She moves just enough so that he stirs with his arm still around her.

“Time?”

Natasha edges up on her elbows, squinting at the clock on the bedside table. “Nine. We can go back to sleep if you want.”

He groans, rubbing a fist across his eyes. “Got nowhere to go, anyway.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” she asks with a small yawn, turning over slowly. Her joints still hurt in a way that she knows will linger for awhile, but she thinks she might be better for it. Even in the days before Clint, she always needed to hurt more in order to feel better.

“Guess not,” he says, angling his head and finding her eyes. “Sleep okay?”

She nods. “Yeah,” she says, the realization dawning on her, and her eyes search his body almost ravenously. “You --”

“No,” Clint interrupts. “You didn’t wake up. You didn’t hurt me.” He pauses. “I didn’t, either.”

She falls into silence, knowing that he understands -- they’re not better, they’re far from healed, and they can’t trust what seems like a small victory. She searches for the right words to respond, but Clint seems to read her mind.

“We can keep taking it slow,” he says. “I mean, maybe more of this…” He gestures to the handcuffs above her head. “If it helps. But even if it’s just working our shit out together slowly...I like slow.”

Natasha nods and finds his mouth, pressing their lips together.

“I like slow, too.”

 

***

 

She makes it into the kitchen after showering and Clint stops her with one hand up; she notices the scar still attached to his wrist is still prominent and finds herself wondering if it will ever heal, or if it will exist as a part of him forever, a memory of a nightmare he can’t seem to shake.

“Make one joke about my fridge, and I’ll kill you. We haven’t been here in months and I need to food shop like it’s the end of the world.”

“Dumplings and coffee?”

The corner of Clint’s mouth twitches. “Something like that.”

“I was actually going to suggest IHOP,” Natasha continues offhandedly as she reaches for a coffee cup, her tone casual, as if they’ve just returned from a mission and are trying to get back into the groove of something resembling a regular life. Clint makes a face.

“It’s not National Pancake Month.”

“So?”

“I dunno.” Clint shrugs. “Just...pancakes.”

Natasha sighs and ends up making them eggs, and Bobbi calls in the middle of breakfast and wants to know if he’ll Skype in to talk with what she calls her “new team.” Natasha finds herself wanting to ask when Bobbi started actually calling him for _anything_ but thinks of Steve, of the way he felt in her arms the day that she left, and instinctively knows better than to pry about what happened in their time apart.

“They need a morale boost,” Bobbi explains through speakerphone. “A reminder that people are still out there who are fighting, who have made it through worse,” and Clint snorts so loudly he almost spews coffee out of his nose.

“And you’re calling me?”

“You’re not optimistic, but you _are_ pretty skilled.”

“Is this the girl who you rescued from that Hydra camp?” Clint asks and Natasha watches him chew thoughtfully.

“One of them. There are a few others here, too.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Could be good for your confidence,” Bobbi suggests, and Clint leans back in his chair, and Natasha sighs because that’s a look she _knows_. Ten minutes later, Clint’s standing on the roof of his apartment building and Natasha is holding the laptop while Clint deploys two boomerang arrows that he deftly catches in one hand when they make their way back to him.

The girl previously introduced as Skye says, “oh my god,” and the girl previously introduced as Simmons says, “oh my _god_ ,” and Natasha turns the laptop around and says, “if you think that’s impressive, you should see what he can do in bed.”

She closes the computer on their shocked faces and makes a mental note to tell Bobbi they might need these kind of Skype sessions more often.

 

***

 

Steve calls her from somewhere in Minnesota, and she can hear the dull rumble of what she assumes is an older pick-up groaning loudly in the background, drowning out parts of his speech like a bad cell phone connection.

“Anyway, I had to pay some hick kid five hundred bucks, but it’s better than the one we stole when we drove to Jersey,” he says, before telling her he’s located Bucky and also finally texted Sharon.

Natasha smiles.

 

***

 

They decide on Vermont as the first place they’ll go together since they left each other for the comfort of someone else, and Natasha drives them past ornate hotels nestled in the snowy mountains well into the thick of the woods, dark frozen roads giving way to the crunch of snowy gravel and a cozy-looking, 1800’s inspired log cabin. She pulls the bags from the car while Clint opens the door; after turning on the heat and securing the locks on the house that hasn’t been used in ages, Natasha looks out the window surprised to find Clint gathering sticks and twigs, one gloveless hands sifting through the cold ground.

“If we’re going to be snowed in here, we’re going to do it right,” he says as he dumps a handful of thick branches into the fireplace with a flourish when he returns. Natasha hugs her arms to her chest while Clint lights a match from a stash he’s found in the cabinet.

“Is this what you had in mind when you suggested Belarus?” Natasha asks, watching the flames lick at the wood, feeling the heat of them on her face.

“Belarus was a shit show,” Clint says, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans. “I hated that fucking place.”

Natasha nods, staring into the fire. “Me, too.”

He’s the one handcuffed to the small bed later that night by his own request, biceps and wrists straining against metal holds, while she teases him with her mouth as he works his fingers into her. She’s initially afraid of hurting him, of the fact that he’ll lose himself in a world of monsters, of the fact that he won’t be able to bring himself out of the pain, but he convinces her enough so that by the time she unlocks the restraints some twenty minutes later, he’s bruised and bleeding and exhausted. She placates him with the appropriate aftercare while he drifts in and out of consciousness in the safety of her arms; they sleep naked despite the cold, their cuts and healing bruises molded together, as if they’re using each other’s skin as a bandage that can take away the worst parts of the agony.

He wakes up when she flinches but she doesn’t scream, biting down on her tongue and letting two single tears fall, before he wipes them away with his lips.

 _My name is Natalia Alianovna._ _I have a future._

_I think I can be okay._

 

***

 

The call comes from an undisclosed location a few weeks later while Natasha is curled up on the couch, a re-run of _Law & Order_ droning in the background and one hand skimming lazily through newly sheared, shortened hair. Clint picks up the phone when she refuses to move, retreating into the kitchen before coming back and throwing the cell onto the floor.

“What’s up?” Natasha asks, propping herself up on one elbow as Clint sits down in the space her outstretched legs have vacated. He sighs loudly, switching off the TV.

“Duty call, apparently. That was Hill.”

Natasha feels her stomach lurch. “And?”

Clint stares straight ahead at the black screen, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “And she wants to know if we’re ready to come back.”

“Come back to what?” Natasha asks, sitting up more fully. “There’s nothing left to go back to, unless I’ve missed some major development.”

“Stamping out Hydra camps, for one,” Clint says, and she can tell he’s choosing his words with care, making sure there’s a certain amount of unspoken emotion and thought attached to each one. “Hill seems to think we’d be into that, given our recent history.”

Natasha feels his eyes follow hers as they find the floor. “Yeah, maybe.” She suddenly realizes that she’s not entirely sure if she wants to head back into the world again like that, potentially re-live everything that had led her to feel so unsure about the state of her life in the first place. Not when she’s gotten so used to sitting around on the outskirts of the action.

But this time, she wouldn’t necessarily be alone. This time, Clint would be there. And they could exist together without hurting each other, at least, not all the time. And hell, maybe shooting random people and driving around the world making amends on their own agenda would be some kind of okay after all.

They never did go about fixing things in a way most people would consider normal.

“What are you thinking?” Clint asks after a moment. Natasha shrugs.

“I’m thinking…” She stops, circling her foot against the floor, trying to figure out the most accurate way to express what she wants to say. “I’m thinking it’s good to be home.”

Clint manages a small laugh, and in that sound, Natasha knows her words have been realized.

“Yeah,” he agrees, sliding a hand through her hair, letting it come to rest on the back of her neck. He smiles, and she matches his grin. “Yeah, it really is.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The Red Room canon/Dottie comes from Agent Carter, if anyone doesn't watch the series.
> 
> Come find me and more fic things on [tumblr](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined.


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